


The Hole

by starkind



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), DC Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate universe - Mafia, Alternative Universe - FBI, Anal Fingering, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Car Chases, Corruption, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Daily Planet, Dark Steve Rogers, Enemies to Lovers, FBI Agent Bruce Wayne, Forbidden Love, Gen, Investigations, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, M/M, Mafia Boss Tony Stark, Male Slash, Minor Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Minor Violence, On the Run, Rhodey Is a Good Bro, Same Performer in Different Roles, Secret Relationship, Shower Sex, Smuggling, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 40,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4673282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkind/pseuds/starkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you mix black and white, there will be a lot of gray.<br/>If you mix right and wrong, there will be a lot of questions.<br/>In any case, it is wise to know which side you belong to at the end of the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been sitting on my hard disk for quite some time. 
> 
> Originally a challenge by my S.O., who created a movie trailer / audio snippet for an 'Epic erotic motion picture, starring Christian Bale and Robert Downey Jr.', this idea was born. However, I ain't no Tom Clancy or John Grisham by far, so go easy on me, please :-) 
> 
> No affiliations whatsoever with any organization mentioned in this; all info solely from the interwebs.  
> No native speaker of any language used in this one either; all mistakes are mine, or google translator's fault  
> (... or, in other words: What the heck am I trying to do here, anyhow?!)

_Prologue_  


The dark van came to a near soundless halt in front of the warehouse. Several black-clad figures exited and moved about with precision, carrying crates from and to the trunk. A man leaned in the open gateway, ankles crossed, and watched the silent bustle with mild interest. Unlike the rest of the workers at the docks, he wore a long, woolen coat over a pinstriped three-piece suit.

Most of his face was hidden below a dark fedora and moreover obscured by the wafting smoke from a cigarette dangling in his mouth. Soon enough, the driver of the van came to stand in front of him. He was short and stocky and tried hard to hide his wheezing from moving faster than he was used to. His fingers fumbled for a dirty handkerchief to wipe down his forehead with.  
  
“All done, Signor. Delivery will be in two days.”  
A trimmed goatee stretched into a satisfied smile.  
“Bene.”

The mouth then blew a blueish cloud into the smaller man's face before his fingers went for a pocket inside his coat. The delivery man took the nondescript envelope and extended a hand. It earned him a disgusted look as the elegant man dropped his cigarette stub to the floor and crushed it under his heel.

“Sparisci, grassone. Pronto.”  
The way he said it with a benevolent smile caused the other man to give an emphatic nod.  
“Thank you, Signor... erm, gracias.”

With an unabashed eye roll he made an impatient, dismissive gesture and turned around for his chauffeur. The big, bulky man stood like a massive statue next to a black Rolls Royce, but moved to open the door in a swift motion once the man approached. As soon the driver had closed the door behind his employer and slipped on the front seat, he glanced into the rear-view mirror.

The man on the backseat threw his hat aside, ran a hand through dark, wavy hair, and blew out his cheeks. Stupidity always got to him, hard.

“Problems, bossman?”  
It eventually earned him the very first smile of the evening.  
“Eh, Happy – you _know_ who I am. Problems? _Me?_ Ridicolo.”

Discreet as always, the chauffeur then fastened his eyes on the road as his employer reached for the car phone embedded in the backseat and casually crossed his ankle over the other knee. His fingers played with the button of the entertainment console while he waited for the line to get picked up; after the fourth ring, as usual.

“Nick? Yeah, smooth as silk. 50 crates of AR-15 and AK-47, in equal shares. Tell Banner he can wrap the deal up, immediamente. I'm off for the night. Uh-huh, later. Ciao.”

A quick glance at the vintage Rolex Daytona on his wrist, then the man leaned his head back.  
“Time to call it a day, Hap, no Flatiron wingding for me tonight.”  
Without taking his eyes off the traffic, the chauffeur gave a sparse nod.

“As you wish, Mister Carbonelli.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Signor - Mister  
> Bene - Good  
> Sparisci, grassone. Pronto. - Get lost, fatso. Quick.  
> Gracias (Spanish) - Thank you  
> ridicolo - ridiculous  
> immediamente - immediately


	2. Chapter 2

During the summer of 2010, New York suffered from temperatures around 96 degrees and higher.

The whole city was drenched in heat; a melting pot of hot metal bus stop seats, smelling sewers and stifling air. Bruce Thomas Wayne, a 33-year-old newcomer from rainy Gotham City, tried not to be too perturbed by the way his shirt and jacket clung to his back, just from the brief walk from the subway to the Federal Bureau of Investigation on 23rd  Street.

During his time in Gotham, Wayne had mainly worked in the private sector and for private agencies. His stellar deductive skills, keen attention to detail, and the ability to compile and analyze large amounts of data eventually got him the attention of New York's Field Office and its respective Assistant Director in Charge, Mr. Venizelos.

After a couple of interviews, assessment centers, and an 18-week training program, Wayne got summoned to New York at the end of June.

He soon found himself working with a variety of other professionals such as intelligence and financial analysts, investigative specialists, paralegals and security experts. Amongst them, Wayne was the first federal investigator to ever leave his hometown for another, bigger district. Bruce spent the majority of July and August chasing after information on the bigger crime organizations of New York.

It had him working close with multi-agency task forces, intelligence groups and fusion centers, and public and private sector alliances. Despite the necessary communication skills that came with his latest job description, his subliminal lone-ranger-mentality soon made rounds within the team and made it hard for him to establish and maintain positive working relationships with his colleagues.

When he first got the files of a certain Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli on his desk at the end of September, his meticulous background checks told Bruce he needed to cast his net of informants wider, but at the same time even more cautious than before. Compared to Wayne's previous cases, Carbonelli was a veritable big shot in the city's organized crime scene.

At the age of forty, he belonged to an organization called the Vendicatori; a gang of ruthless assassins, brutal goons, money launderers and gun runners. Many nights, Bruce spent his free time navigating through a variety of records, reports, miscellaneous communications, case files and other sources to discern the patterns of complex behavior Carbonelli and his gang inhabited.

Though he was not listed as the head of the organization, the man seemed to have an infatuation with the finer things in life; be that beautiful cars, women, or the most expensive brands available. Wayne estimated him to be the official bankroller of the whole network.

Sitting on the sofa bed in his small apartment in Brooklyn Heights, Bruce munched on a Falafel Sandwich from his favorite take-out service and stared at the gritty black and white pictures of a dark-haired man crossing the street towards a town car, framed by two female companions. The Gothamite eyed the man in the picture from head to toe. Carbonelli was handsome above average and openly exuding he himself knew.

Interestingly enough, he also had a less than picture-perfect vitae.

Born and raised in New York by an Italian mother and an American father, Carbonelli grew up bilingual in a wealthy household. His parents divorced when he was a teenager, but managed to work a joint custody until Antonio was of legal age. At 21, the only son of Howard Stark and Maria Carbonelli cut all his family ties and left his hometown to spend several years abroad in Italy, as Bruce had come to learn. He must have sharpened his teeth overseas after getting involved with the local mafia.

Carbonelli then returned to New York at the age of 30, after he had received news of his mother's death; a latent cardiac degeneration took her life too early. His father's whereabouts remained unclear up to the present; according to the files Bruce had sighted, Stark senior was suspected to have fallen victim to alcoholism and poverty, if anything.

Bruce stifled a yawn and shut the manila folder to throw it onto the small side table. The heartbreaking childhood back-story was an old one; to Wayne, it most certainly was no excuse. Having become an orphan at the age of eight himself, he scorned people going astray because of parental loss. His latest case would be no exception; even more so since the half-Italian was giving the FBI the runaround for almost ten years.

To the untrained eye, Carbonelli was the head of his own, small IT company which provided technical support to mid-sized businesses. On top of that, he also owned a store situated in Little Italy; a supposed repair center for terminal devices and such. Wayne knew it was all just a sham to hide the fact he was taking care of large-scale gun trafficking in New York.

After finishing his dinner, Bruce crumpled the aluminum wrapper tight within his fist. He threw the remains into the trash bin and pursed his lips. Outside in the backyard, two dogs began to bark into the night, and someone hollered out of a window in a language unknown to Bruce. He was quick to yank his window shut, despite the warmth inside the room, and began to prepare the couch for his nightly quarter.

As he lay there, in semi-darkness and stifling air and stared at the ceiling, Bruce's mouth formed a determined line.

It was about time to pay Mister Carbonelli a visit sometime soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vendicatori is the Italian term for, you might have guessed it already, Avengers (though technically speaking it should be "I Vendicatori", but that would be misleading with the English pronoun, so I left it out)
> 
> Oh, and in case people are still confused - Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli goes by his mother's last name in this fic (feeling headcanon-ish, I added an 'i' to make it sound more Italian) Of course, the tags don't allow for such a pairing, but I'm just playing out the good old artistic freedom card here ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

“Mister Carbonelli! Mister Carbonelli!”  
The man in question looked up from his magazine, slight annoyance on his features.  
“Take the stick out of your butt, Parker. How long do you work for me to still call me that?”

The young, wiry man standing in the doorway of the back office shifted on his feet.  
“There is someone who wants to speak to you. He doesn't seem like a regular customer.”  
With a small sigh, Antonio Carbonelli flipped the magazine shut and took his feet off the desk.

“I'm coming.”

Once he had turned the corner, he saw a man dressed in a black business suit standing at the counter. Through the beaded curtain, Antonio could see he took turns in tapping on his smart phone and glancing around. A swift brush caused the beads to jangle, and the man to look up.

“Good morning, Sir. What can I do for you that my colleague can't? Your phone clearly works.”  
After a brief moment, during which they watched each other thoroughly, the man cleared his throat.  
“Wayne, from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I have a few questions for you.”

At the blunt approach, a smile wormed its way on Carbonelli's lips. He indicated for his young sales assistant to back off again and leaned forward onto the counter, crossing his arms. “My, my, that's new. The upfront route I mean. I'm gonna be frank as well then – badge? ID?” His playful, teasing tone elicited a meager grin from Bruce.

With controlled movements, he pouched his mobile device in the inside pocket of his jacket and gave a little flip to the lapel. Antonio's eyes flickered over to the small, metal pin attached to the fabric underneath. “I see. And what have I done to be honored with your presence at my humble store? I don't do sales discount for federal services, Signor, I'm sorry; business is hard enough as it is.”

While Carbonelli spoke, Bruce tried not to focus too much on the glint in those dark brown eyes, which seized him up with curiosity and amusement. Once the man straightened up behind his counter, Bruce was quick to notice he was shorter than him by at least two inches. “Is it, Mister Carbonelli? Interesting of you to say; your annual tax return begs to differ.”  
  
The jingle of the doorbell released Antonio from giving an answer. When the young shop assistant reappeared and took care of the new customer, Carbonelli focused back on Wayne. “How about we talk about this somewhere else? It's not a topic to discuss en passant, I'd say.” The sonorous voice now held a hint of severity, and Bruce had to be careful not to let his inner satisfaction seep out.

He gave an upstage shrug of the shoulders and bent down to grab his attache case from the floor. He then made an inviting gesture towards the exit. “Feel free to accompany me to my office. My car is outside.” Carbonelli did not move an inch. Instead, he ground his jaw and furrowed his brows. “Whoa, pipe down, Mister Shiny Collar Button. That thing doesn't equal instant subpoena, pal.”  
  
Bruce tilted his head ever so slightly and raised an eyebrow. “Maybe not, but I might as well be back with a search warrant by tomorrow.” The shorter man gave a spontaneous little laugh, exposing white teeth. “Someone's riding your ass if you're this persistent, eh? Tell you what, Agent – I'll meet you up for lunch in an hour and a half at Caffé Roma, Broome Street. But just because I like your suit. Not off the peg, decent fabric – even if you lack manners, you've got style. 11:30 then. Ciao.”

The beaded curtain rattled as the dark-haired man disappeared. Bruce threw the young sales assistant another look, but he was fumbling with some device for the customer and did not notice. Gripping the handle of his attache case tight, the Gothamite turned and left the store.

~~~

Caffé Roma was a small, cozy spot right in the middle of Little Italy.

A corner building amidst many other red brick houses, it featured a well-worn terrazzo floor, green wall panels and ceilings, and a dark wooden interior design. Bruce Wayne did not know what ever prompted him to agree to Carbonelli's brazen invitation, but he arrived on the scene a little before 11:30. Once he had fastened his eyes on the window seats, he was surprised to see Antonio Carbonelli already occupying one of them.

The bell over the entrance door gave a little jingle when he entered, and the aromatic smell of coffee, condiments, and pastry wafted over to him. In the background, some Italian song from the 80's resounded from an equally old record player. Most of the seats inside the cafe were empty, and the investigator wondered why Carbonelli had chosen the most visible place to sit at, right behind the door.

Part of Bruce straight off perceived a trap, but he doubted Carbonelli would harm him in broad daylight, with thousands of tourists passing by.

Upon his entry, Carbonelli blinked upwards, mouth curving with something akin to satisfaction, and made an inviting gesture towards the opposite chair. Once Bruce had put his attache case into a safe corner at his feet and opened the button of his jacket, the other man smiled at him. Carbonelli had ridiculously long lashes for a man, Wayne noticed out of the blue before he cleared his throat and sat up even straighter.

A certain nonchalance splayed out on those expressive features as the half-Italian nodded.  
“Over-punctual, Agent, how unexpected. So you do have manners, I'm positively surprised.”  
The Gothamite made a wide-spread gesture with his hands upon the round, marble table.  
  
“Well, Mister Carbonelli, you wanted me – here I am. And as a bonus, I'm even listening.”

His counterpart broke into an even bigger grin, drummed a quick rhythm with his index fingers onto the rim of the table and flashed the waiter behind the counter in the back a victory sign. “I don't talk well on an empty stomach. The pignoli cookies are divine. You should try them.” When Bruce declined, the other man just shrugged and called out his order in Italian.

In no time, they got served two cups of strong, black espresso and a plate with three cookies on it. Carbonelli popped the first cookie into his mouth without hesitation and grinned at the careful way Wayne nipped on his cup. The federal agent then eyed the surrounding tables for a sugar dispenser but came up empty. His opposite slurped the hot caffeine unperturbed.

“Too strong for you, Agent? We can have Buddy make it an espresso macchiato for you.”  
Bruce was unsure whether his heart pounded faster because of the double shot, or the ridicule.  
“It's fine. Listen, Mister Carbonelli, I'm a busy man, so let's get straight to the point here.”

The smugness on the face of the half-Italian persisted, but he at least shrugged in acceptance.  
“Yeah, sure. And by the way – call me Antonio. Everybody does.”  
Eyes unblinking, Bruce just gave an emotionless smirk.  
  
“Let me rephrase my earlier question again, _Mister Carbonelli_. You state your occupation as...”  
Antonio rolled his eyes for Bruce to see and devoured the second cookie.  
“Another member of the stick-in-the-butt-club. Anyhow. Occupation, si – merchant, if you will.”

Bruce held his gaze for the longest time, impressed by the way Carbonelli never so much batted an eyelid at his blatant lie. The Gothamite then arched an elegant eyebrow upwards. “Other sources credit you as a weapons dealer. The 'Merchant of Death' it is, I believe. Not the same thing in my book.”

Without warning, the elder man leaned over the small table and took the final cookie. Instead of eating it however, he held it in mid-air before he snapped the pastry in half between two fingers. Taken aback at the way the half-Italian invaded his space, Bruce leaned back in what he hoped was a controlled manner. Antonio Carbonelli licked his lips and narrowed his eyes.

“I know guys like you, Wayne. Their tough as nails attitude. I can see the determination, the urge to crack down on all the injustice in the world. Admirable, in a way. But, honestly, you think I'd be sitting here with you if I weren't sure you don't have the faintest hint of solid prove against me? Otherwise, you'd long since be lying in an alley with a bullet to the brain, amico.”

Again Bruce's heart pounded hard and fast against his chest, even though his outward facade did not betray him. With a tight-lipped smile he put his hands upon the marble tabletop and grasped for his almost cold espresso. Not taking his eyes off Carbonelli, he downed the rest.

“It's exactly statements like these that make it even easier for me to stay on your tail, Mister Carbonelli. You are certainly not the first man on earth who thinks he's all above the law. And I can guarantee you won't be the last felon I'm going to put behind bars for illegal gun running. Sooner or later, you are going to make a mistake – and I'll be right there to watch you fall.”

For a moment, Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli said nothing and busied himself with scraping the small silver spoon inside his empty espresso cup. When his eyes found those of his counterpart again, they darted all over Bruce's face until they held the other man's glare.

“Your faith in your abilities is your weakness.”  
At the smug expression on Carbonelli's face, Wayne countered with a cold, calculating look.  
“Your overly excessive arrogance is yours.”

A disdained tug set around Carbonelli's mouth.  
“Well. To each their own, I guess. We'll see how that one works out for you, Wayne.”  
“...Bruce. My name is... Bruce.”

The investigator frowned upon his sudden outburst and stared down into his empty cup, embarrassed.  
He therefore missed out on the small grin that crossed Carbonelli's face.

“Is it, now?”  
Before Wayne had the chance to amend his slip-up, his opposite clicked his tongue.  
“Well, at least I get to know whom exactly I've invited for coffee.”

The small wink Carbonelli threw him confused Bruce so much, that he did not even complain when the other man reached for the money clip inside his suit. A fifty dollar bill to the table, a superficial grin down to where Bruce Wayne still sat, then Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli was gone.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Three months after Bruce Wayne had been set on prosecuting Carbonelli's case, the investigator felt like he had come to a dead-end. After his unsuccessful tries to see through Carbonelli's game –be that by speaking to former employees or friends of the Carbonelli clan– his monthly reports to his superiors and the weekly team meetings became dreadful.

The fact that Bruce usually got the job done back at Gotham, one way or another, had earned him the reputation for being a hardass; moreover incorruptible and uncompromising. Now the whole NY department almost seemed to love watching him hitting brick wall after brick wall. On top of that, the Gothamite also abhorred his current living conditions.

Snowbound New York in December might have been a tourist dream, but for Bruce Wayne, it was a climatic nightmare. His ground floor apartment was drafty and uninsulated, resulting in him trying not to be around much, except for sleeping, or running the oven to prepare frozen foods for dinner. He extended his office hours for the benefit of being able to sit in a heated room without jacket and fingerless gloves.

One late, snowy afternoon mid-December, fate then decided to give him a little push into the right direction.  
“Afternoon, Wayne. Here's something to help sweeten up your day.”  
Bruce looked up from his notebook. His office neighbor, a rookie by the name of John Blake, waved about with a file into his direction.

The young detective had to lean across the table to hand it over, seeing that Wayne remained seated and simply outstretched an arm. “Fresh intel, just in. You told me to check with the ATF again, and it seems like the NICS got a clue on a possible transaction. Someone's intercepted a message from the Dieci Annelli, and there's a rumor the Vendicatori might be involved!”

Blake's voice almost cracked from excitement. Expressionless, Bruce raised a sharp eyebrow, to which Blake cleared his throat. The younger agent ran a hand through his black hair and made a vague gesture with the other. “Ramirez and Foley are already on their way, maybe they let us tag along, as... backup.” While Blake droned on in the background, Bruce began to thumb through the file.  
  
“Dieci Annelli is Foley's case. I don't tag along. Sit down and get Stephens here in two.” Once his cohort did as he was told, Bruce also picked up his phone. He pressed a speed dial button and jammed the receiver between ear and shoulder. With one leg placed across the other, he waited until the other end picked up.

“Agent Wayne. I need to speak with Special Agent Alexander Pierce.”

Conversation with his superior was short and resulted in Bruce getting a requested document. Satisfied, he hung up, leaned back in his ergonomic office chair and began to study the small manila folder in detail. A lethal smile was on his lips once he was done. When he held the official search warrant in his hand not even an hour later, guaranteeing him access to Carbonelli's business premises in Little Italy, he summoned his two colleagues and headed out to Mulberry Street.

A ten-minute drive later, Wayne was furious to find out Carbonelli had closed his store over the Holidays, leaving him outside in the blistering cold under a heavy snowfall. Agents Blake and Stephens threw him peculiar looks when Bruce refused to abandon their search past the new year and, ad libitum, decided to raid Carbonelli's posh townhouse on 890 Fifth Avenue instead.

~~~

The apartment block was huge and tastefully furnished.

A tall and rather lanky blonde man with a British accent, dressed in a butler's uniform, let them in after a lengthy inquiry about the reasons for their visit and kept them waiting inside a large foyer. There was a big painting hanging over the open doorway of the salon, and Bruce eyed the petite, dark-haired woman in it. It did not take him long to recognize her face, and also where he had last seen those dark, intense eyes.

Maria Carbonelli had been a beautiful woman, and undoubtedly passed on most of her good genes onto her only son.

After what felt like an eternity, the butler reappeared and led them into the living room. There, the half-Italian sat on a couch, dressed in an expensive looking robe over an all-black outfit. Next to him, a beautiful, slender woman had her long legs on his lap and was browsing through a fashion magazine. Soft music played in the background, and a fire crackled in the fireplace.

Carbonelli put a hardcover book aside when the three men stood in the doorway. Eyes trained firmly on Bruce, Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli then broke into a wide, feral grin. “Agente Wayne, che sorpresa! Don't tell me you've come to collect for the Salvation Army. I've already donated my fair share this year. Can I get you and your friends something to drink?”

The way the half-Italian took to the situation with a disarming nonchalance almost drove Bruce up the wall. Trying to make up for his two subdued and fairly abashed colleagues, he took the paper out of his coat and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Too kind, Mister Carbonelli, but no. Here's my search warrant. I assumed you to be at work.”

The shorter man spread his arms and pointedly turned to glance at the window behind him.  
“Why no, maltempo molto. You wouldn't even send a dog outside in this blizzard. Terribile.”  
His female companion gave a quiet, clear laugh at his mock-apologetic undertone.

Feeling ridiculed, Bruce ground his jaw. He stuffed the paper and his fists back into his pockets, out of Carbonelli's sight, and pointed his head towards his associates. “Agent Blake and Agent Stephens will be taking a look at the rest of the house.” His voice was clear and crisp, and Carbonelli nodded with forced seriousness.

“Va bene. Pepperino, bella mia, go and accompany the gentlemen downstairs, will you?”

He patted her thigh in an amicable way. The red-haired woman slung her legs in an elegant manner off his lap and put the magazine aside. With a peck on Carbonelli's cheek, she then stood up and adjusted her dress. Bruce tried hard not to stare at her swaying hips when she left, heels clicking, and kept his glance on the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Unconsciously, he took his frozen fingers out of the pockets of his coat and held them closer to the warmth.

“Are you cold?”  
The gentle question came out of nowhere and took Bruce by surprise. He inhaled deep.  
“I also want to have a look at your bookkeeping from the past three years.”

Carbonelli sighed and moved over to the house bar in the corner. Wayne turned along, to still be able to watch him from the corner of his eye. The shorter man filled a crystal tumbler with an amber liquid and gave an inviting wiggle of his eyebrows when he held it out to Bruce. The latter gave a single shake of the head, and Carbonelli downed the scotch in one sitting.  
  
“Still the hard-ass route? It's almost Christmas. Di Natale. Do you know what that means to me and my family, Agent Wayne? This is a time to be at home with your beloved ones, and not for spelunking in other people's attics or basements. What do your wife or your parents say when they find you missing at the table? Where's your heart? Or do you have neither?”

The words stung, but the Gothamite kept his face stoic and emotionless.  
“This will only take about thirty minutes. You may mind your own business in the meantime.”  
He very well heard the disdained click of the other man's tongue.

“Bello e impossibile. Fine, suit yourself. Do know I'll talk to my lawyer about this, though.”  
Carbonelli came back to stand right in front of Bruce and fixated him with an ice-cold glare.  
Wayne straightened his spine on purpose to appear yet taller and put up a condescending look.

“I'm counting on it, Mister Carbonelli.”

After a little less than an hour, Bruce, John Blake and Gerald Stephens left the Carbonelli townhouse as empty-handed as they had entered it. Meanwhile, the blizzard outside had completely snowed in Bruce's car. The three agents had no choice but take the subway as a result, and Bruce entered his home with frozen hands and feet an hour later than expected.

It turned out his colleagues in another part of the town further south have had far more luck. Agent Foley managed to claim a successful manhunt as his personal victory of the night, seeing him and his team had managed to take a hold of a dispatcher from the hostile gang.

Bruce's already foul mood then worsened two days later, when he got the information his car had been standing in a no-parking zone, and gotten towed away at his own expenses. The fact that the no-parking zone consisted of the private parking lot of a certain Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli made the whole thing even more mortifying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dieci Annelli - Ten Rings  
> Agente Wayne, che sorpresa! - Agent Wayne, what a surprise!  
> maltempo molto - very bad weather  
> terribile - terrible  
> Va bene - All right  
> bella mia - my beautiful (to a woman)  
> Di Natale - Christmas  
> Bello e impossibile - Beautiful and impossible


	5. Chapter 5

New Year's Eve found Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli attending a spectacular private party high up a posh penthouse suite. A little before midnight, his female company had left for the restrooms, leaving him standing outside on the patio, champagne flute in one hand, cigar in the other. As he gazed along the skyline of New York, another presence appeared next to his left shoulder.

“Ciao, Antonio.”  
Said man was quick to place the flute onto the railing and spread his arms in a welcoming way.  
“Zeke! Non ci credo – what are you doing here? It's been what now... two years? Three?”  
  
The young man smiled an awkward smile and allowed a brief hug. He was in his mid-twenties, had brown hair, and a way of appearing taller than his 5'10'' willowy frame should allow him to. “Four, uncle Tino, you should really keep count. Anyway, how are you? How's business?” Carbonelli took a puff off his Cuban cigar and twisted until he leaned against the railing.  
  
“Splendido, all of it. Hey, is Obie here, too? Haven' seen him around in ages as well.”  
At that, his unofficial godson furrowed a pair of thick brows.  
“No, dad's been unable to attend tonight. He has a lot on his plate these days.”  
  
In a matter of seconds, Zeke's adolescent features morphed into non-concealed resentment. “He's also quite disappointed in the way you handled the latest shipment.” Antonio's smile warped into a feral mask as he seized the younger man up. With a casual glance around for nosy bystanders, Carbonelli threw an arm around the slim shoulders.

His fingers squeezed Zeke Stane's non-existent biceps hard while he grinned on, benevolent. “Ah, now we're talking. You may go and remind your old man that I don't do business on a whim, capisce, bambino? Obie knows that. And only because I'm well-disposed to him doesn't mean I do fishy deals. If you guys can't keep your channels secure, I don't deliver. Basta.”

When Antonio let go of the squirming youngster, he clamped the smoldering Cohiba between his teeth. Zeke looked as if he wanted to rub the area on his arm, but refrained. “You owe us 15,000 bucks for three pickups gone wrong – plus the cops took down our best runner!” The elder man looked around and noticed his red-haired company moving onto the patio and over into their direction.

He moved so that the crook of his arm was around Zeke's neck, like an amicable headlock. Carbonelli then whispered into his ear whilst looking straight ahead. “I'll only say this once, amico – I don't owe you guys nothing, zero, niente. You get busted by the Feds; your prob. And now you'll keep your mouth shut, smile, and... ah, Pepper, bellissima, look who's here. You do remember Zeke, don't you? Dio mio, hasn't he grown?”  
  
Engrossed in pulling his female company close to him and indicating for his hovering bodyguard to get them two new glasses of champagne, Antonio soon lost sight of the tall young man when the clocks struck midnight and the sky erupted in a multitude of fireworks.

~~~

It was the second week of the new year. Agent Bruce Wayne for one was only too glad to be able to put holiday season behind.

A lot of his colleagues and superiors were still on vacation, which gave him more time to work the way he preferred to – alone and undercover. Carbonelli's phantom company still caused him quite a headache. Opening hours seemed to be inconsistent, and shipping logs were diffuse. Why its owner felt the need to be in attendance at the oddest points of time prompted Bruce to go and inquire, outside of his federal duties.

A cold and crisp late Friday evening had him linger around the small convenience store across the street, browsing through some magazines until Bruce picked up on the arrival of the subject of his surveillance. A black Porsche Cayenne pulled up right in front of the store, and Antonio Carbonelli was quick to trudge through the sheen of snow until he disappeared inside.

Wayne remained where he was, put the magazine back into its rack and watched as Carbonelli walked a couple of times in between store and SUV while he loaded small boxes into the car. Bruce was quick to snap a couple of pictures with his mobile from afar, but when the unique opportunity presented itself, in form of an open door and the owner nowhere to be seen for a moment, he decided to move.

All windows were tinted from the outside, once Bruce tried to peek inside the luxury car, so he glimpsed around the big vehicle into the dim-lit store. The mobster seemed to be in the back, from what Wayne assumed on his own. With a check for the gun at his hip, Bruce also slipped inside. Carbonelli had only bothered to switch on the lights in the back office part of his shop, so the agent inched forward, careful not to have his presence known.

Far away rustling drew him closer to the part of the building behind the counter, and while Bruce still pondered how to get past the annoying jingle of the beaded curtain in the door, a shadow and footsteps approached from the back. The Gothamite ducked and held his breath as the mobster walked past him without a clue about his presence.

As soon as Antonio had gone for his car outside, Bruce moved forward, still in squatted position

The 'staff only' room was small and empty, apart from a few chairs and a table. With an ear and an eye out for a returning mobster, Wayne left out the restrooms and went for the obvious manager's office. There, a small couch, as well as a desk and a swivel chair, displayed some professionalism, just like the safe in the corner. To Bruce's dismay, it was still locked.

Footsteps once more walked into his direction and he pressed himself flat against the wall behind the ajar door. Much to his luck, Carbonelli walked past the office, and Wayne heard him rummage around with what sounded like a freight elevator. Bruce released a slow breath and took his hand away from his gun when the place again fell silent after a few moments.

From his vantage point, he eyed the desk across from him again; it was meticulously tidy. No shelves or closets around indicated for customer files or archives, leaving him nothing to browse through or to photograph as potential evidence. Just as he was about to leave as stealthy as he had come, and had almost made it through the shop and out of the door, he stopped when people walked by outside.

Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention, Wayne hunkered in the shadows between two wooden show cases.

Once Carbonelli returned from wherever he had been, he switched off all lights in the back and proceeded to make his way out. Part of Bruce's renegade mind had made up the decision to stay behind and get locked in; which would allow him an undisturbed look around. Only the mobster did not leave the way he was supposed to. Instead, he lingered behind the counter.

Sweat began to form on the back of Bruce's neck. Sounds from a slow passing by car outside took some of the eerie silence away for a moment. Then Carbonelli moved forward, careful steps on linoleum. His profile soon appeared in Wayne's line of vision, and the federal agent saw him inspect the scenery in front of his store with mistrust.

Something then must have caught his eye, because instead of leaving, he locked the store from the inside with a small, electric device. Bruce frowned and watched him go for the pocket of his jacket. Soon, the baritone voice with its slight Italian accent filled the air. “Hapster? How fast can you be here? The store. No, no, I'm good now. Just caught some faces outside that _could_ mean trouble. Not sure. Fuck! Okay, twenty. No, leave out the others. Bye.”

From the way he crouched near the floor, Bruce soon felt his bent knees starting to hurt. He had not planned for Carbonelli to linger around and knew his makeshift plan had just been shot. At least the half-Italian abandoned his position by the door and walked back into the other part of the store. Unable to escape through the main entrance any longer, Wayne was caught like a sitting duck.

Once he figured the other man to be out of hearing range, he shifted into a more comfortable position and tried to get the blood circulation back into his feet by shaking them. Someone then rattled on the door from the outside, and Bruce froze. Carbonelli had been right. From what little he could make out in the dark, at least three figures peeped through the windows.

His lips felt dry all of a sudden, and he ran his tongue over them. Bruce pondered his options. Staying put would last him just as long as the unexpected company outside stayed where it was, which might only be a matter of time. Moving over to where Carbonelli hovered harbored equal possibilities to end with a bullet between the eyes.

After some internal back and fro, the Gothamite then decided to still give it a try and make it through the back door into safety. Before he got very far, four gunshots rang out from the outside, followed by the unmistakeable splinter of glass. Bruce knew without looking that Carbonelli's luxury SUV certainly was not going anywhere soon.

The commotion prompted a dark-haired head to reappear just then; only to fasten his eyes on the unexpected intruder across from his counter instead. A gun was up in Bruce's face the same instant.  
  
“Holy...!”  
With the moment of surprise on his side, Bruce was quick to raise his hands in the semi-dark.  
“Don't shoot! Agent Wayne, FBI!”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non ci credo! - I don't believe it!  
> splendido - wonderful  
> Capisce, bambino? - You understand, kiddo?  
> Basta. - Enough / That's it.  
> Bellissima - Gorgeous (to a woman)  
> Dio mio - My God


	6. Chapter 6

The split second in which Carbonelli had his gun trained on him was the longest in Wayne's life. Then the muzzle lowered, and Bruce was able to make out the horrified and strained expression on the other man's face behind the gun. “... what the actual fuck?! How did you get in here? _When_ did you get in here? Che diavolo??”

Once his heartbeat was back to normal, Bruce slipped around the massive wooden counter.  
“No time for explanations. There are four men in front of your store, all armed.”  
Carbonelli cast him a grim look as he put a new ammunition clip into his handgun.  
  
“Really now? Well Agente, why don't you go out, flash your little badge and arrest them then?”  
The Gothamite was about to give a retort when scraping sounds outside caught their attention.  
“Those friends of yours beg entrance, I reckon.”

He watched the half-Italian check something inside the pocket of his jacket.  
Grim lines around his mouth, Carbonelli huffed and glimpsed over at the moving shadows outside.  
“No friends if they don't call beforehand. And, I think, this is the time we both should duck.”  
  
No sooner than the mobster had pulled him down behind the counter, bullets riddled the air. Glass shards and wooden splinters rained down on them like during an apocalypse. Trained federal agent that he was, Bruce recovered fast and was surprised to find himself all but pinned down by the solid body of the mobster next to him.

After he had inhaled a good sniff of the other man's unique fragrance, his hands pushed against Carbonelli's chest, trying to break free. Bruce could feel the other man's heart beat hard and fast underneath his palms.

“What the hell?”  
Carbonelli eventually released him and crouched next to Bruce on the floor.  
“Obie's belated Season's Greetings.”

Too immersed in trying to stay alive, Bruce refrained from inquiring and grasped his own gun.  
“Backdoor?”  
Antonio shook his head and winced when a bullet wheezed past him in close proximity.  
  
“We're cornered amico, no such luck.”  
More and more of the interior fell victim to the blaze of gunfire. Bruce pointed his chin ahead.  
“The elevator – quick!”  
  
Aghast the mobster stared at him but complied by instinct. Crawling flat on the floor into the back office area, Antonio scrambled to his feet and flipped a dirty old rug aside. Bruce stayed in a hunkered position by the door frame and kept his gun trained on possible intruding assailants. With a rattle, the metal sliding doors then opened to reveal a square cabin.

Both men were quick to hop in, and once Tony pressed a button, the hatch above them closed. The cubicle was just big enough for Bruce being able to stand, but not big enough to fully accommodate two grown men. The shorter mobster was pressed up flat against him, chest still heaving from adrenaline, and Wayne felt Carbonelli's warm breath on the right side of his jaw.

“Where does this thing lead to?”  
  
From the sinking feeling in his stomach, they were going downwards. Cold and clammy air intruded his nostrils; a typical basement smell. Bruce sensed rather than saw Carbonelli raise his head to look at him. Another whiff of earthy, wooden scent floated over into his direction.

“Couple of options. We'll choose the safest. Hopefully.”  
With care, Bruce unlocked the safety lock of his gun again and kept it pointed at the ground.  
“It better be.”

They had to crouch and crawl through some tubular ventilation shafts that smelled musty and stale. Antonio Carbonelli led the way, his movements quite agile and nimble underneath fine Italian fabric. When he grabbed another set of brackets to make the climb, the rusty metal gave way, causing the mobster to near-lose his balance. Bruce who was hot on his heels ducked to not get hit by the flying metal bracket.

At the same time, he reached up to steady the flailing form and pushed him back in place. His noble rescue move caused Bruce's fingers to land square upon the other man's firm backside. Embarrassed he all but flinched and pulled his hand away, seeing that Carbonelli had caught himself. As soon as the half-Italian had found the next, fixated grip, he chuckled into the dark.

“Why, Agente, didn't know you cared. I think though this is neither the time nor the place...”  
Bruce gritted his teeth tight.  
“Move. On.”  
  
After several more minutes in undignified and cramped positions, faint light from above marked their final destination. A massive iron hatchway a couple of feet above their heads, open just enough for someone to press himself through the ajar gap. The mobster made an inviting gesture upwards and grinned.

“After you, Wayne.”  
The Gothamite eyed the elevated exit with a wary eye.  
“Why? Because I'll be looking down an armada of armed mobsters? You go first.”

Antonio rolled his eyes and glanced up from their spot and down with a gauging look.  
“Mamma mia, ever the leery one, aren't you. Well fine, but then you have to help me up.”  
Without asking for permission, Carbonelli put both hands on each of Bruce's shoulders.

Perplex, Bruce was about to shake him off, sensing some kind of trap, until he realized that the shorter man had also raised a foot and waited for Bruce to give him a leg-up. Wayne was quick to interlink his fingers and grimaced when the mobster put the wet sole of his shoe inside.

“Make it quick. On three.”  
  
With a brief countdown and a lot of momentum, Bruce propelled the other man up. Carbonelli gripped the rim of the hatchway and dragged himself out on flat on his stomach. A split second of panic tried to manifest in Bruce's mind at the thought of being left behind. Indeed the hatchway seemed to move just then, and Wayne was about to yell at the other man.

With a grating sound, the metal then slammed open, and the dark-haired head of Carbonelli reappeared. He grinned down at the Gothamite. “Thought I'd leave you trapped? Tempting indeed, but no. Come on out, no bad guys around.” Angered at so much audacity and presumption, Bruce did not grab onto the outstretched arm but jumped and managed to pull himself up by sheer agility and strength.

Once he was back on his feet, Carbonelli motioned for him to help in latching the hatchway.  
“Where are we?”  
Bruce brushed down the filthy front of his winter parka and looked around the dark alley.

“Too far away for them to know where to look for us.” Carbonelli clapped and rubbed his hands together, a pleased look on his face. Then he patted down his trousers for his mobile device and pulled it out with a relieved expression. “Care to explain who 'they' are?” At Bruce's blatant try, the mobster did not even look up from the small screen.  
  
“And just when I thought you'd be far savvier than I gave you credit for. Shame, shame.” At the tutting, condescending sound of Carbonelli's voice, Bruce's face twisted in slight anger. He felt for his trusted gun inside the pocket of his jacket again and checked his watch. “Let me guess: Those guys just wanted to complain about a broken notebook.”  
  
At the unexpected witty retort, Antonio looked up and broke out in a manic fit of laughter.  
“Now I'm heavily tempted to outbid your employer's salary and have you work for me.”  
As quick as Wayne's bout of cheekiness had come, it was gone, and he scowled again.

“You seem to forget I'm working on getting you behind bars, Carbonelli. And tonight proved I'm on just the right track.” From where the other man had been busy typing something into his phone, he cast a rather smug glance upwards. “Oh, I wouldn't be too sure about that. Unconditional abidance to the law is a struggle most agents don't maintain for long. Vero che, I've seen it all and more.”

Bruce had to prevent himself from giving a quite inappropriate humorless laugh.  
“Not on my team.”  
Antonio gave a sparse smile.  
  
“Young and idealistic; sì proprio, that's how all of them start out. Believe me, Wayne.” Not knowing what to reply, Bruce only shook his head. The assurance with which the half-Italian coated his claims made him feel angry and dirty at the same time. Not about to let a criminal talk him down, the FBI agent sized the shorter man up with a disparaging look.

“How would you know, Carbonelli? Why should I even believe a single word you say?”  
The mobster put the phone back into the pocket of his dusty pants after it gave a short buzz.  
“My pickup service. Sorry, but I really gotta go; it's getting a bit chilly here outside.”

It was then that Bruce realized the other man only wore a thin button down shirt; a shirt which had probably cost more than his monthly rent. Carbonelli cocked his head. “Oh, and why you should trust me? Do yourself a favor, bello, don't trust anybody – _especially_ not the federali.” The half-Italian's breath was visible in the winter air. A faint ray of light then grazed their legs.

Tony glanced at the car's headlights behind him, then back up at Bruce's mistrusting expression. “Can I give you a ride? I mean, I probably need to blindfold you, but at least you'd get home.” Agent Wayne gave him another dirty, disdained once-over. With a huff that exuded a small cloud of frosted air, he started off into the other direction, shoes crunching on encrusted snow.  
  
“Rather go and see what's left of your precious Porsche. Probably not much.”  
Tony ground his jaw in irritation.  
“Asshole. I just saved your life.”

Bruce ever so slightly craned his neck to speak over his shoulder as he walked away.  
“And I'm just one call away from ruining yours. Better run fast before the NYPD gets here.”  
He did not see the offensive gesture Tony made at his back.

The deep hum of a black limousine in the back of the alley reached his ears soon after. When Bruce did turn around once more, Carbonelli was gone, mere moments before sirens wailed through the cold night. He walked on until he was back on the main street, discovered he was about a mile away from Carbonelli's demolished shop, and watched several police cars arriving at the crime scene with flashing lights.

Not about to make himself known, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and switched to the other side of the street to walk past. From the corner of his eyes, Bruce inspected the bullet-riddled Porsche Cayenne with its smashed in windows and flat tires. The first NYPD car had not yet crossed the distance over to the completely destroyed front of the shop when Bruce spotted two familiar faces.

Head down, Wayne kept on walking until he had trudged through the frozen sleet on the ground to disappear around a corner. With a deep-set frown, he peeked back over to where Agent Foley and Agent Ramirez, dressed in civil winter parkas, were coming out of Carbonelli's store, each carrying a dark bag in one hand. Ramirez was on the phone as Foley took the bag from her to disappear behind the SUV.  
  
After his initial confusion had passed, Bruce wasted no time in taking out his phone. Due to the distance, the dark of the night, and the crowd of curious onlookers which had started to gather, however, the video material was grainy and blurred. Just then, Ramirez ended her call to look over to Foley as the latter came back seconds later. They spoke a few words and examined the broken Porsche from close up.  
  
As soon as the blue lights from a police car illuminated the street, they headed for the opposite direction. Bruce Wayne stood, rooted to the spot, and watched them pull out of a parking space no two minutes later to disappear into the night. His first instinct was to follow them, but his own car was still several blocks away, and he had not seen the license plate of the dark Buick Roadmaster.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, the Gothamite pocketed his mobile and left the scene. Carbonelli's words played inside the back of his head over and over as he sat and waited for the car heater to spring to life. As soon as he had warmed his frozen fingers up to set the car in motion, he could smell the faint lingering of Carbonelli's fragrance on his hands.

The scent of sandalwood accompanied him all the way home.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Che diavolo? - What the hell?  
> Vero che - True that  
> sì proprio - yeah, right  
> bello - beautiful (to a man)  
> federali - (the) Feds


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks @ Batsocks for pointing out a tiny, but important little detail in this chapter!

“I thought you said no more calls after the Anelli bust last month.”  
“We're running into trouble too often for my liking these days. Especially after the Anelli bust.”  
“The incident on Mulberry got your hackles up, I reckon?”

“Your people should've kept out of that deal. Now my people have to deal with their vendetta.”  
“So what's new? Your Italian gun runner hasn't been affected, as far as I know of.”  
“You're creating unnecessary trouble, man, we don't need that.”

“I'm keeping your fucking back clear the best way I can, Nick, what's your problem?”  
“It wasn't me who's brought in the latest troublemaker to the scene.”  
“Did you think I had a choice? Venizelos is breathing down my neck, not yours.”

“You said he wouldn't cause problems - I'm not so sure about that anymore. He's on to us.”  
“Didn't think he'd be this persistent. It's only a matter of time until I pull him off the case.”  
“That might be too late. We can handle it, short and efficient as always.”

“No! Give it another couple of days. I cannot afford anymore commotion around here now.”  
“Then there better be no more fuck ups on your part. You have a week to take care of things.”  
The line went dead without further ado, and Alexander Pierce was left to listen to his own, heavy breathing.

~~~

Over the weekend, Bruce's thoughts strayed back to that fateful sighting.

He was tempted to make it into the office to see if Foley or Ramirez had filed anything to the Carbonelli heist, but held out until Monday. As usual, he was at work at 6 am sharp, sipped his first hot coffee and waited. Half an hour later, people started to liven up the office; among them the two agents in question.

“Hey, Foley.”  
The other agent gave him so much of an upwards glance.  
“Wayne.”

Bruce slipped a hand into the pocket of his pants.  
“How was your weekend?”  
That got him a more exasperated look.

“Fine.”  
The Gothamite bobbed his head along ever so slightly.  
“Did anything special?”

Foley slapped his file onto the desk with more force than necessary.  
“I'm not really in the mood for small talk, Wayne, what do you want?”  
Bruce kept his poker face, except for the tiniest smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing, just curious.”  
The elder man stood up in a swift motion.  
“Rather go and get to work than wasting your and my time here. I'm busy.”

Bruce noticed how Ramirez looked at him with a thoughtful, rather wary expression. All casual, he then shrugged and went back to his desk. Outside, more agents began to pile in, among them their superior. Quick to make up his mind, Wayne put his notebook on lock screen before he stood up and left the room.

“Agent Pierce – on a quick word, please?”  
The man in his mid-fifties scrutinized the Gothamite across from him in the neon-lit corridor.  
“How convenient, Agent Wayne. My office then.”

Bruce walked up to where his superior pointed an outstretched arm down the aisle. No sooner than they had closed the door behind and Pierce had taken a seat behind his desk, Bruce also took a seat across from him. He bent forward, placed his elbows on his thighs and inhaled.

“Recent investigations led me to believe there is some non-standardized operation going on.”  
Pierce's expression never wavered. Instead, the elder man leaned back into his office chair.  
“What made you think so if I may ask? And please, I want you to be frank with me, Bruce.”

The young Gothamite wet his lips and nodded.  
“Agent Foley and Agent Ramirez have been at the busted store of Carbonelli, two nights ago.”  
Alexander Pierce mimicked his nod, concentrated look on his face.

“I see. And what are you planning to do with this piece of information, Agent Wayne?”  
Flabbergasted, Bruce opened and closed his mouth several times.  
“Me? I... it's not on me to address the individuals in question.”

His superior took off his glasses and squinted lightly at him while tapping the item against his chest.  
“If you want me to take care of the situation, I need proof, Wayne. Do you have proof?”  
Bruce leaned back and spread his arms

“Well, Sir, a video does exist of their presence at the scene, but the quality of it is not... good.”  
The blond man cocked his head and slipped his glasses into the breast pocket of his suit.  
“So it's entirely speculative? And where does your supposed intel come from, anyhow?”

Bruce felt the sweat starting to pool underneath his business suit.  
“It's a... I cannot reveal the direct source. All I know is someone in this unit is playing double.”  
Pierce's watery blue eyes bore into his.

“I do not take unfounded accusations against members of the FBI lightly. Not those from newcomers who work here less than a year. And, especially, not from newcomers who try to incriminate their colleagues in order to distract from their own, dirty games.”

Speechless, Bruce blinked a couple of times, convinced he had misheard.  
“E...excuse me, Sir? I don't know what you're talking about – I didn't do anything wrong!”  
Pierce cast him a look full of disdain.

“The evidence that has been found in your records says otherwise. There is proof you have been involved in bribe-taking from criminal organizations, at the very store in Little Italy you just mentioned. I cannot tell you how I'm disappointed I am, Agent Wayne.”

The Gothamite began to shake his head, repulsion written square across his features.  
“I demand an explanation on what supposedly is held against me – and who filed the charges.”  
His superior gave a small move of his hand. Behind them, two large security guards entered.

“You are in no position to demand anything, Agent. Hand over your badge and your gun. You're suspended from active duty until further notice. I will report your case to the Assistant Director in Charge as well.”

Disgusted, Bruce did as he was told. He left the office without a glance back, head held high.

~~~

The weekly meeting held at the warehouse in Harlem had two pressing topics: The deal gone wrong with the Dieci Anelli, and Antonio's current game of cat and mouse with an FBI agent by the name of Wayne. Bruce Banner sat and typed into an ultrabook, bright screen mirroring within his specs. Steve Rogers and Donald Blake, both blond, muscled, and of the quiet, dangerous kind, sat next to each other and watched their leader.

Nick Fury stood, arms akimbo, and listened to the shorter man who paced to and fro, gesticulating wildly and stroking his goatee in between.

“I'm telling you, Nick, that guy's not worth the hassle. The Dieci Anelli on the other hand...”

Natasha Romanov jiggled her stiletto-clad foot and circled a finger around the rim of her glass.  
“Little Anti's too soft. He's good with running guns, but doesn't know how to use one himself.”  
Challenged, the man in question swung around and slammed his palms flat on the desk.

“Shut your trap, mignotta, alright? You don't know shit about the whole situation.”

It caused Natasha to give a mild grin. Antonio knew the Russian spoke Italian well, among other things. She then patted the forearm of Clint Barton next to her, who was about to move. “Easy, easy, Italiano. I'm just saying if Clint and I get to handle him, we're done in 12 hours.” Antonio clenched his jaw tight and glanced around the expectant faces of the round table.  
  
“No, you won't. He's come to _my_ house and insulted _my_ honor, so _I_ strike him down. Basta!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mignotta - whore


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fair amount of swearing and some rough-ish third base stuff going in this one. We're finally getting somewhere!

The neon lights in the basement of the apartment block flickered on in an irregular rhythm as Bruce touched the switch with his elbow.

With momentum, he hauled the big, plastic basket onto the washing machine and squatted down to stuff his many shirts, socks and boxers inside. Bruce preferred to do his laundry Saturday nights, when he did not have to wait for the family of five from the 3rd  floor who occupied all machines at once. Or for old Mrs. Rosenberg who tried and lure him into lengthy conversations whenever he passed by her apartment.

Behind him, a door clicked shut.

Bruce froze when the lights above him went out and plunged the small room into a semi-darkness. Only the meager streetlight from outside fell through the tiny window high up near the ceiling, and cast an eerie, bluish tint. The Gothamite sprang to his feet, adrenaline cruising through his veins, as he reached for his missing gun holster.

Before he was able to make out a silhouette, his attacker slammed him face forward into the wall and twisted his left arm behind his back. A forearm rammed into his neck and pinned his head and right arm into the cold cement. Bruce gave a small grunt and began to struggle. When he caught a whiff of a faint, distinctive scent, he forced his eyes back open.  
  
“Got some dirty laundry to share with me after all, Antonio?”  
Bruce's voice came out muffled, with half of his face squished into the wall.  
“Stai zitto, stronzo!”  
  
Carbonelli's voice shook with anger as he reinforced his grip on Bruce's arm.  
“I've told you to stay out of the whole thing.”  
Unbeknownst to the half-Italian, Wayne smirked ever so slightly against the concrete.  
  
“No can do, chaperone.”  
  
The fingers of Bruce's right hand began to form a fist. In a swift move, obtained during endless lessons in Krav Maga, he levered his right arm underneath Antonio's, gained momentum and spun them around so that the shorter man got slammed with his back against the wall. It all happened so fast that Antonio only gave a small yelp when Bruce applied a one-armed chokehold on his throat, though without too much force.  
  
“Vai a farti fottere, bastardo!”  
Bruce Wayne was near positive he knew the translation to that spat-out comment.  
“I could bust your ass for this, Carbonelli. Assaulting a federal officer calls for the slammer.”

Mere inches separated their faces. Bruce saw the fire burning in those dark, expressive eyes. “Then who's going to save your sorry ass once the shit hits the fan, huh? Fuck, Wayne, you have no idea what you're messing with, capisce? You're already knee-deep in shit you can't control, I'm just trying to help.” A cold, harsh laugh escaped Bruce's lips at their current situation. Still, he released his hold.  
  
“By trying to ambush me and bash my skull in? Fuck you and your help, big time.” He watched Antonio straighten out the collar of his expensive designer suit and stepped back. “I'm here because... Porca l'oca, I ...” Carbonelli ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly disheveled. He then raised his head. “You said you wanted to be around when I made a mistake. Here's your chance.”

Bruce continued to palm his jaw which had connected with the concrete wall. “What mistake?” Antonio bit his bottom lip and frowned. “I've fallen. Hard.” Exasperated by the cryptic bits and pieces of information, Wayne snorted. “You've got ten seconds to scram this place. After that, I'll be calling the cops. Last chance.” When he attempted to grab the basket and leave, Carbonelli shot forward and grabbed him by the arm.

Before Bruce had time to once more apply his self-defense techniques, Antonio's mouth was on his; hot, half-open, and tasting like sugar and espresso. The empty basket clattered to the floor as Bruce made a feeble attempt to push him away. Soon enough, however, his mouth also opened up under the rough ministrations. Antonio's goatee scratched his chin as his hands started to run through Bruce's thick hair.

After a while, the shorter man pulled back and regarded the heavily breathing man in front. From what he could make out in the twilight, Bruce Wayne's pale complexion was flushed, the skin on and around his mouth reddened and swollen. “What game are you playing here, Carbonelli?” His voice was unsteady as Bruce still tried to get his respiration under control. “I've fallen for you, stronzetto. I can't help myself.”  
  
When Bruce failed to comment and only regarded him through hooded eyes, Antonio moved again.   
  
Far gentler than the first time, he pushed the Gothamite backward into the wall to seal their lips once more. That time, Bruce's tongue invaded his mouth first. Antonio gave an audible moan of pleasure upon feeling the bulge underneath Bruce's sweatpants; even more so when his fingers slipped beneath the waistband to discover the Gothamite had gone full commando.

“Dio! Mi fai eccitare.”

Wayne jerked away at first when Carbonelli began to fondle him, but any rational thoughts left his mind once those large, calloused fingers wrapped themselves around his growing arousal. The moan that escaped his lips was too loud and too indecent to ever belong to him, Bruce pondered through a haze of ecstasy. It did, however, have the desired effect on his opposite.

“Ti desidero molto. God, you're so hot."  
  
Even if Bruce was unable to answer, his hands had already begun to unbuckle Antonio's belt. In no time, he had freed him from his underwear, and opened his eyes to see how the half-Italian tilted his head back when he stroked him down for the very first time. Their ragged breathing filled the hot and humid air of the laundry room as eager hands fumbled, stroked and groped, and hungry mouths dueled with each other.

Soon, sweat pooled on Bruce's forehead and in the small of his back underneath the t-shirt. “Antonio...” His whispered moan caused the other man to quicken his ministrations. His face then was right back in front of Bruce's, his breath hot on his lips. From the way he panted, he, too, was close. “No... call... me... Tony. Please, I... wanna hear you say it... per favore...”

Bruce came moments later, with a grunt and a shudder. The desired name tore out of him, rolling off his tongue with ease, and prompted the half-Italian to follow suit with a barely suppressed moan. For a moment, only their harsh panting filled the room. In slow motion, Bruce leaned his heated body back against the cool wall and tried to collect his jumbled thoughts.

Tony's head still lay slumped against his shoulder, and he could felt the stickiness inside his palm. Part of Bruce erupted in uncommon panic at the slim possibility of someone walking in on them. It prompted him to try and fumble his pants back up again. When Tony began to move against him, slow and deliberate, he pulled the pocket square from the breast pocket of his suit and began to clean his hands.

He passed it over to Bruce before he also pulled his trousers back up. Wordless the taller man then handed the piece of cloth back to its owner, and Tony's nimble fingers threw it right into the still open washing machine. “I want it back though. It's Gucci vintage. Oh, and don't even think about tracing my DNA from it, or you're in it for a nice PR crisis when they find out whose juices are also on there.”  
  
Seeing Tony was about to leave, Bruce stood for a moment as if struck by lightning.   
“... so that's your schtick here? Assault, rape, and blackmail all rolled into one? Fuck you!”   
Bruce's voice sounded offended, hurt even, and Tony turned in the doorway.   
  
“I didn't force my dick in your hand, for starters. And believe me, handsome, I'd rather stay and take you up on that last idea, but it's best for both of us if I leave now. Call me if you want to repeat this, some time – in a cozier environment maybe. Ciao, sexy.”

Bruce remained frozen to the spot after Tony was gone, and the question as to how died on his lips. Eventually, he switched on the washing machine and trotted back upwards with mechanic steps. His apartment lay in darkness, but as soon as he switched on the lamp on his desk, he saw the small note with an unfamiliar number scribbled across. It had not been there before.

“Fucking bastard.”  
With clenched teeth, Bruce took a few, deep breaths.  
“I need a new lock.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stai zitto, stronzo! - Shut up, asshole!  
> Vai a farti fottere, bastardo! - Fuck you, you bastard!  
> Porca l'oca - s.th. like 'goose is a bitch', but here meaning 'damn' (colloq.)  
> stronzetto - (little) shit  
> Dio! Mi fai eccitare - God! You turn me on  
> Ti desidero molto - I want you so much  
> per favore - please


	9. Chapter 9

“Did you get the job done?”  
  
The voice on the other end began to speak in elaborate strings of words. “What do you mean he wasn't there? Carbonelli, I told you to take care of the guy.” More talking erupted. Nick Fury listened on with a disdained expression on his face. “I don't care about the FBI, and neither should you. Focus on your job. I need the next deal to go down without a hitch. You've got the necessary information from Banner?”

Antonio Carbonelli rattled off encoded sentences about the latest shipment. Fury affirmed once before he ended the call as brisk as he had made it. As soon as the connection got cut, the black man cast his remaining eye upon the person sitting opposite of him in a chair.

“He's lying, Nick.”  
A jiggle of a black leather boot.  
“He's got no reason to.”

One leg crossed over the other.  
“What if Wayne himself's the reason?”  
Fury glowered long and hard at the smug pair of red lips.

“I haven't told you to spy on Carbonelli, Widow.”  
Her eyes stayed as impassive as his. Only her left eyebrow rose ever so slightly.  
“Maybe you should have. His loyalty seems challenged when it comes to a certain g-man.”

Once he was alone, Fury was quick to dial a different number.  
He did not have to wait long until the line got picked up.  
“Get me The Captain and The Hammer.”

~~~

Over the years, Bruce had developed a sixth sense when it came to being followed.

It was just his bad luck that one late evening, two masked men attacked him only a few blocks away from his apartment. On the way from where he had parked his car, rough hands yanked him into a dark alley and muffled his attempted yells by crushing his windpipe in a choke. The way his attackers moved with stealth, precision and speed made it clear they were experts.

Bruce fought like a lion and applied all of the skills and strength he inhabited. However, when the man who had a good five inches on him yanked his arms behind his back, near dislocated his shoulders and held him tight, he was unable to parry the severe beating from the second attacker. The last coherent thought which ran through Bruce's mind was that he must have been a boxer; a good one at that.

Then there was only the taste of copper in his mouth.

Once his legs did not support his body anymore, they dropped him onto the dirty, snow-covered ground, kicking his motionless form another couple of times before they fled the scene, as unobtrusive as they had arrived. Bruce came to with a weak groan when a straying cat caused a nearby trashcan lid to clatter. It took a few moments for the pain to set in, and for him to realize he was covered in a slight sheen of snow.

With great effort, Bruce managed to push himself to his knees. The sleet underneath him was stained red from where his head and torso had been. It took him ten pain-filled minutes to drag himself over to his apartment. There, he collapsed in front of the toilet and began to retch out a mixture of blood and saliva. Every bone in his body hurt.

At some point he passed out again; wedged between sink and shower cabin.

~~~

Two days after not seeing or hearing a thing from his favorite FBI agent, Antonio began to get antsy. He decided to drive by Bruce's apartment, inconspicuous at first, then parked around the corner and decided to inquire more closely. At the mailbox stuffed with brochures and letters, he got concerned and plucked most of what he could grab from the small mail slot.

The new, puny excuse of a lock did not keep him outside for long again. Upon entering the darkened apartment, Antonio shifted the pile of crumpled mail into his left hand and kept his right hand hovering near the shoulder holster under his jacket. The small confines were cold and stale. Faint illumination cast shadows on the ground and Tony peeked around the corner.

The first thing he fastened his eyes on was a see-through plastic bag stood on the table, filled to the brim with blood-stained paper towels. The sound of a gun being cocked caused him to halter his steps a split second later. Tony stared at was the barrel pointed into his direction. Immediately after, he eyed the bruised and battered face behind the gun.

Bruce Wayne's left eye was almost completely swollen shut. The rest of his face looked just as bad; a mixture of purple and red. The dried blood under his nose and around his eyebrow was an almost blackish color. “Dio Mio! What happened to you?” Bruce snorted between split lips, derisive. While he did lower the gun, he kept it in his lap. “Your friends happened, that's what.” The Gothamite tried to move, only to give a sharp hiss.

Tony was quick to step near and drop the mail onto the table. Straightforward he moved on to where he assumed the kitchen to be and rummaged around an empty fridge. He craned his neck to look at the man on the couch. “Don't you have any ice?” When the answer was a weak shake of the head, Tony slammed the fridge shut, yanked the ramshackle backyard window open, and grabbed two hands full of snow from the window sill.

After stuffing them into a kitchen towel and twisting it tight, he returned to the living room. “What are you living on by the way? Lint, milk, and stale bread? Che triste.” He squatted down in front of the couch and gently pressed the makeshift ice bag onto Bruce's swollen eye. The Gothamite flinched but did not complain when Tony held it in place. “When? How many?”

There was so much worry and hatred in Tony's voice that it made Bruce wonder if he was being played or not. “Two or three days ago, don't remember. Two of them, masked. One was huge.” Tony ground his teeth so hard he almost chipped off the enamel. “Cap and Hammer. Cazzo!” He used his thumb to stop a thin trail of melted ice water from running down Bruce's cheek.

“Wonder why they didn't outright kill me. Nobody would've suspected a thing.” The half-Italian furrowed his brows and adjusted the ice pack again. His fingers brushed against Bruce's when he shifted, and Tony could not believe how cold they were. “Well, your employer might have come looking for you sooner or later.” Wayne gave a quiet snort. “Probably not. Got suspended, a week ago.”   
  
Aghast, Tony's eyes darted across Bruce's mangled face.   
“Why's that?”  
“Bribe-taking from criminal organizations. You shouldn't have paid for my espresso back then.”  
  
His attempted smirk failed and resulted in a pained hiss and his bottom lip cracking open. Tony's jaw worked in silence for a few moments. Then he seemed to have made up his mind. “You need to get out of here, pronto. This place is a fucking igloo anyhow, cazzo dio!” Weak, Bruce pushed against his arm and forced the ice bag away. “Leave me alone, I'll manage.”  Angry, Tony stood up and smacked the dripping towel onto the table.  
  
“Idiota! You wouldn't even be able to lift a finger if they come back for you! Come with me!”  
Pieces of ice and water ran over the tabletop and trickled down onto the worn-down carpeting.  
Eventually, Wayne shifted and made a move to stand up, pain etched deep onto his features.

“I need... some things. There are files...”  
Tony glimpsed at his watch and, out of habit, felt for the gun inside his shoulder holster again.  
“No packing, leave everything the way it is. Less conspicuous.”

After Bruce had locked his gun and slipped it into the waistband of his pants, Tony took the keys from his trembling fingers and bolted his apartment from the outside. When he focused back on the silent man who leaned against the wall with an ashen face, Tony's fingers ghosted across Bruce's shoulder, concerned. “Can you walk? My car's around the block.” Lips pressed together tight, Wayne nodded.

Tony still felt the force he gripped his forearm with. It took them a good fifteen minutes until Bruce sat slumped in the passenger seat of the black Cadillac sedan with tinted windows. With effort, he turned his head to the left. “Where are you going?” Tony turned up both the heating and the steering wheel to the max and tipped the accelerator. “Casa secondaria, Lennox Hill. About 8 miles from here. Relax.”

Even though he would never admit it, Antonio Carbonelli drove extra careful, though as fast as possible, across the FDR Drive and made it in under half an hour. By the time they arrived at the small condo, four blocks way from his regular abode, Bruce Wayne was half-asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Che triste - How sad  
> Cazzo - Fuck  
> Casa secondaria - secondary home


	10. Chapter 10

Up in the penthouse loft, Tony supported most of Bruce's weight and helped him into the bathroom. He granted him enough privacy to relieve himself and prepared the shower stall in the corner. Bruce would not be able to lay down in the adjacent bathtub, but he needed to get warm and cleaned up so that Tony could tend to his injuries. “Stop fussing 'round me.” Concerned, Tony closed the toilet lid and flushed.  
  
“If you stop pissing blood, I just might. Clothes off, we have to get you warm. In there.”

Bruce only grunted but allowed Tony to help with undressing him. When his limbs shook visibly as he stepped into the ground floor shower cabin, the half-Italian made up his mind. He, too, stripped down to his boxers and got in behind the taller man. Tony clenched his teeth as he saw the grueling mass of dark purple, black and blue hematoma all over Bruce's bare body.

“Fuck, they got you real good.”   
The Gothamite braced his arms against the wall and flinched when Tony turned on the water.  
“You of all people should know how this works.”

In no time, the temperature was pleasant. Bruce closed his good eye and hung his head low.  
“Not my type of leisure activity, il mio amico, no. I'm in charge of lesser dirty tasks.”  
Tony reached out for a handful of liquid soap and began to foam it up in between his palms.

“Tell me if it hurts too much, va bene?”

Before Bruce knew what he meant, two gentle hands began to wash his hair with care. They did circling, light motions on his scalp, feeling for more prominent bruises or hidden cuts. Tony made a point of not touching Bruce below the waist and refrained from ogling the view which presented itself. Wayne's condition put a damper on any kind of libido anyway.

The injured man remained silent and only swayed a little on his feet, which prompted Tony to quicken his procedures. He steadied Bruce with his own body weight while he rinsed out the shampoo until all of the soap gurgled down the drain, together with a faint trail of pink from encrusted bloodied cuts and bruises. Bruce remained standing under the warm water while Tony fetched a large towel and handed it over.

The pair of boxers he wore was soaked, so Tony slipped it off and threw it into the corner of the shower stall before he covered himself with another towel around the waist. He left his guest sitting on the broad rim of the whirlpool to fetch some dry clothes for them both to sleep in. Tony returned, dressed in t-shirt and sweatpants, and put the clothes for Bruce aside to fetch a first aid kit from a drawer.

Equipped with sterile swabs, he reached out to tend to the most prominent open cuts and bruises. Wayne did not move or stir at the first contact with the stinging disinfectant, and Carbonelli wondered whether he had fallen asleep on the spot. He worked his way all over the mangled face and had just reached the laceration on Bruce's left eyebrow when the latter cleared his throat.

“Why, Tony?”  
The dabbing stopped for a split second.  
“Why, Tony what? Why they did this? I can precisely tell you why.”  
  
Wayne reopened his good eye to catch the other man's close-up gaze.  
“Why are you risking everything by doing this? You don't know anything about me.”  
A deep chuckle, then Tony cast the little cotton swab aside and rinsed his hands.

“What if I want to? What if I want even more than that? And not just for one night or two?”   
  
He filled a cup with water and shook out three Advils from a bottle into Bruce's palm. After he had swallowed the pills, Tony handed him the cup and watched him down its contents. “Just like I won't switch sides, you won't discover the path to righteousness. We'd never work.” Tony straightened up and shifted until he was able to place a careful arm around Bruce's waist.   
  
“Path to righteousness. I like that, really. Righteousness is so underrepresented these days.” Together they inched their way over to the king-size bed. Bruce was too tired to realize the other man slipped in right behind him. The anti-inflammatory drugs were slowly beginning to kick in, and he marveled at the absence of pain before he succumbed to a blank slumber.

~~~

Bruce Wayne drifted through the following days like in a blur.

He only woke when the painkillers ebbed off long enough for him to feel his body starting to heal; slow but steady. Whenever he was awake and in pain, Tony was around, too – with a glass of water, codeine, and some hot soup. He helped him over to the bathroom and back, and Bruce began to get accustomed the warmth and feel of the other man's body next to him during the nights.

Through his medical haze, the deep voice of the half-Italian wafted through to him like in a fog, usually with a gentle touch to his hair or his forehead. Sometimes, Bruce would catch a faint whiff of the scent he already linked with no one but Tony, whenever he bent over to check on his patient after his shower and shaving session in what seemed to be the morning hours.

Way before he was able to open both eyes or get his brain to cooperate, Bruce was able to make out the distinctive sound of Tony's shoes whenever he walked around on the ebony parquet of the loft in long, determined strides. He also got accustomed to a certain clean, citrus-like smell that sometimes mingled with the smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee.

Once he eased down on the medication, the Gothamite began to register his surroundings.

The apartment was as posh and luxurious as its inhabitant and looked right out of the pages of a glossy magazine. What little furniture there was seemed tasteful and expensive. Dark wood, white walls, and a lot of silver dominated the room. From his spot in bed, Bruce was able to catch a glimpse of the typical Upper East Side scenery with its many skyscrapers and a great view on Central Park.

It was a sunny winter morning when Bruce was really awake for the first time in days. Tony was outside on the roof deck that encircled the whole apartment, smoking a cigarette as he talked on the phone. Nestled under the warm blankets inside, Bruce watched him pacing around the outdoor area in unabashed candor.

He watched Tony exhale smoke and cold air in equal shares, watched him gesticulate along with the hand holding the cigarette, and watched how the defined muscles of Tony's back moved under the light gray button down shirt and dark blue v-neck pullover combo he wore. After a short while, the half-Italian then flickered the stub away and took the mobile off his ear.

The large glass sliding door opened with a swift move, and Bruce inhaled a mixture of crisp winter air mingled with a faint whiff of smoke as Tony stepped inside. Their eyes met in an instant, and the shorter man broke into an honest, relieved smile as he stepped up to the bed. “Hey, look who's awake. How's my favorite bed hog this morning? Hungry?”  
  
Tongue heavy inside his mouth, Bruce tried to stretch with care underneath the sheets. “Not much. How... long was I out?” Tony slipped the mobile into the pocket of his pants and reached over to grab a glass of water. “Two and a half days, give or take. Never seen a man sweat so much in my whole life. Dio.” Ashamed, Bruce took the glass from him and gulped its contents down, thirsty all of a sudden.  
  
“I'll cover any expenses you've...”  
It brought out an honest and amused laughter to the other man's lips.  
“Oh per favore, stop embarrassing both of us here. I can handle some sweated sheets.”

The unspoken comparison between Bruce's and Tony's different living conditions lingered in the air. Before it got too uncomfortable for either man, the dark-haired mobster glanced at his Rolex and tilted his head. “I gotta run some errands, but I'll be back early tonight. Think I can leave you here alive and kicking without you stealing all my silverware, agente?”

It was a non-vicious statement, meant to ease the mood, but Bruce frowned even more. “Think I'll just shower and leave as well then.” He slung back the covers and threw his legs over the rim. They buckled once he tried to stand upright, and he gripped for the nightstand. It was out of his reach, but Tony was not. “Like hell you will. Look at you. Weak as a kitten.”  
  
Antonio Carbonelli tsked, eyes flickering with disdain, and all but pushed him back down onto the mattress. Too dizzy to put up a fight, Bruce shook his head, trying to shake the bazillions of stars swimming across his vision, and gripped the edge of the bed tight. When Tony was sure he was not going anywhere, he marched off to the far end of the loft, and rummaged around the closets of the open kitchen area.

His handmade leather shoes clicked on the floor as he came back moments later, a small tray in his hands. With a clinking sound, he placed it on the nightstand and Bruce managed to steal a glimpse. “Stay in there until I get back, gattino mio. Drink a lot of water. And eat. All of it.” Another wave of warm, wooden fragrance grazed him as the half-Italian pulled the blankets back up.

In puzzled silence, Bruce's eyes managed to follow his retreating back to the front door.  
“I'll leave your silverware, but make copies of your bank statement instead.”  
His weak retort caused Tony to chuckle, right before the door fell shut with a click behind him.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> il mio amico - my friend  
> va bene? - all right?  
> gattino mio - my kitten


	11. Chapter 11

As soon as he was alone, Bruce made another attempt to get up.

His eyes flickered to the arrangement of orange juice, pastry and fruit next to him and caused his stomach to growl. He polished off the whole tray in no time, despite being disgusted by his greedy appetite. His body demanded more rest afterward, and he woke again much later when the winter sun descended and formed irradiate, red-golden patterns upon walls and furniture.

Determined not to be lazing around any longer, Bruce managed to get out of bed without the world spinning around him in crazy circles. In slow motion, he shuffled over to where he suspected the bathroom to be. He pulled a disgusted face at the image greeting him in the mirror. It was stringy hair and dark bruises all over; colorful blotches of violet, red, or green. Many were hidden by a fair scruff of beard.

His eyes found an unused, packed toothbrush and a disposable razor on the shelf, and Wayne made use of both. Afterwards, he stepped into the ground-floor shower cabin and relished the warm water and the feel of getting cleaned up. He sat down on the end of the bed ten minutes later, far too exhausted from his little excursion, and glanced around.

Bruce tugged the towel tight around his waist and debated whether or not to put the sweat-stained pajamas back on, seeing his own clothes were nowhere in sight. Sounds from the front door then interrupted his thoughts; electronic blips like a code being typed in. Soon after, Tony entered in breezy strides, dressed immaculately in a long, black woolen coat with a fashionable gray scarf wrapped around his neck.

One of his gloved hands carried a huge shopping bag while the other tapped on his mobile. The second glove was clamped between his teeth, and he gave the door a little backward kick to slam it shut. After he had locked it, put the bag aside and took the glove from his mouth, Tony's gaze automatically fell upon the bare-chested man sitting upon his bed.

He froze for a moment, gloves in his hand forgotten, and stared. It was the third time in a day Bruce Wayne flushed with shame and embarrassment. “Not too bad a sight to come home to, I admit. Molto bello.” Quick to cover his initial bafflement, Tony grinned, took off his coat, and threw the gloves upon the dresser in the hallway. He snatched the bag from the floor again and sauntered nearer.

Bruce clawed his fist into the sheets and glimpsed down to make sure the towel covered him. “I couldn't find my clothes.” His voice sounded silly to his own ears, and he avoided Tony's piercing stare by inspecting the large bag of a checkered red-black color in Tony's hand. The logo said 'Woolrich John Rich & Bros.' With a sweeping gesture, Tony then hauled it next to Bruce upon the bed.

“While I don't mind at all,” He let his eyes roam around the well-built torso. “I came prepared.” When Bruce made no move whatsoever, the half-Italian eventually reached into the bag himself. He dug out a heavy, black winter parka with a fur-trimmed hood and held it up. Wayne narrowed his eyes at the jacket, then over at the mobster with the pleased grin on his face.

“What's that?”  
Tony rolled his eyes for him to see and threw the coat onto the mattress.  
“Your new jacket. After seeing your old one, I figured it was beyond saving.”

The Gothamite remembered the tearing sound of fabric during his ill-fated run-in with two members of Tony's gang. One of them had yanked at his arms in such a violent way that it had caused the seams of the sleeve to rip apart right under one of his armpits. Right there and then, Bruce Wayne's mouth disappeared in a thin line. “I didn't ask you for reparations. And where are my pants and my...”  
  
An equally vexed Antonio Carbonelli exhaled a gust of breath through half-open lips.

“Way to express your gratitude, amico. One – no, you didn't ask, but I went and bought it anyhow. Two – your other stuff still needs to get laundered, except of course if you like to re-dress in all that blood and grime. Three – get your butt up and out of my reach, take that with you...” He all but hurled the not yet empty bag into Bruce's lap. “... and see if there's more in there to not be grateful for. You can dress here or in the bathroom, I don't give a fuck!”

The shorter man continued to rant on in a language Bruce did not understand, turned his back on him, and began to throw the pillows and blankets down to the floor. Wordless, the Gothamite grabbed the towel around his hips with one hand, the shopping bag in the other, got up and hobbled into the direction of the lavatory. There, he tilted the bag until three other, individual bags fell onto the closed lid of the toilet.

A pair of dark sweatpants, two white t-shirts and a soft, hooded jacket. Three pairs of socks and boxer briefs completed his yield. All items were of far better quality than Bruce would ever spend money on. He was surprised everything was true to size and exited the room. There, Tony was sprawled in a rather comical way square across the mattress, trying to get a fresh set of bedclothes onto his king-size mattress.

Amused, Wayne watched him struggle from afar for a few moments. Once Carbonelli had spotted him, he grunted. “I never change those fucking things myself.” With nimble fingers, the Gothamite helped him fix the edges of the sheet in no time. He grimaced as the movement tore at his still sore body, and straightened up again.

“How do you get by on your own then, I wonder?”  
At the conciliatory tone in his voice, Tony's anger evaporated and left him with a faint smirk.  
“Just fine, smartass, if it wasn't for a half-dead fed loitering in my bed.”

His dark brown eyes then roamed high and low Bruce's clad physique. Tony nodded, satisfied. “At least it fits. My eye measurement's never off.” Wayne cast his eyes down to the floor and chewed on his bottom lip. “I... don't want to be ungrateful, it's just that I don't know if all of this-- is good. For me. Us.” Carbonelli threw the pillows back in place and brushed across his rumpled dress pants.

“Good for _me_ will now be a quick shower and some pasta all arrabiata afterwards. Interested?”

Even as he talked, Tony strutted around his loft and began to undress, leaving a trail of clothes behind. Bruce watched along as his wiry frame clad in boxer briefs disappeared within the bathroom soon after, and spent the upcoming ten minutes trying to keep his vivid imagination in check. To distract himself from the sounds of running water, he moved into the open kitchen area and slid onto a bar stool.

Tracing the marble texture of the massive counter with one finger, Bruce mulled over his options. Part of him wanted to go and leave; to stop making everything even more complicated. Another, far more ridiculous part of him felt comfortable and secure in the half-Italian's company, which was enough to give Wayne another headache.

As he sat with his elbows upon the counter and massaged his temples, Tony reemerged within a cloud of steam billowing out after him. Bruce kept his eyes to himself until Carbonelli appeared in his line of view; dressed in a similar outfit as his. “Headache?” Tony slipped out a huge pot from a cupboard, filled it with water and placed it on the stove. He touched a few switches and turned to rummage another shelf.

“When I think about the situation at hand, yeah.”  
Bruce's eyes followed the nimble ways Tony washed and chopped up ingredients with ease.  
“Nothing a good bowl of pasta won't fix.”

Soon enough, the aromatic smell of herbs, garlic, and tomato wafted through the air.

It was then that Bruce realized how very hungry he in fact was, and he watched in eager anticipation how Tony filled two huge plates with steaming pasta. He was handed the first one, but waited for his host to be seated as well. Tony then raised his glass of red wine and toasted at him. “Enjoy. My nonna used to make this whenever I was sick, or didn't feel like eating. Always did the trick.”

Bruce twirled a fork full of pasta just like his opposite did, and blew on the steaming mouthful. He chewed on it for a while, until his mouth morphed into an amused smile. “Can't make his own bed if his life depended on it, but knows how to cook. You're really something.” Tony grinned around his food and paused to take another sip of his wine.

“Careful with those generalizations, stupido; after all I got you out of that dumpster you call flat.”  
Greenish-brown eyes blazed over at him with undisguised anger.  
“So you're just looking for someone to get along with your sugar daddy attitude? That it?”

Hostility replaced Wayne's brief bout of flirtation. “Let me tell you I don't want any of this. I don't _need_ any of this. I should be anywhere but here!” He threw his fork down with a clatter and stood up, wincing from the pain of his ribs. With calm, controlled movements, Tony dabbed at the corner of his mouth before he placed the napkin aside. He then put his elbows up on the table, steepled his fingers and pulled up his left eyebrow.

“You and your tantrum done? Bene. Now, that's actually what I like about you; this tenacious, take-no-shit attitude you got there, Wayne. But, please, stop insulting me in the process of throwing a fit at everything and everyone around, okay? Molto grazie.”

From where Bruce had already started to walk back into the living room area, he stopped and inhaled audibly. After a brief moment, however, he turned around and marched back to the counter where Tony still sat upon his bar stool, with the same suave expression from before. Without a word, Wayne took the other man's half-filled glass of red wine and downed it in one, big swig.

He placed it back with a small crystal clink and breathed out through his half-opened mouth. Before Tony, now all raised eyebrow and pursed lips, could say something, Bruce stepped in between his legs, put a hand on the counter and leaned forward to kiss him square on the mouth. His free hand found its way around Tony's nape to palm thick, curly hair, and to hold him in place.

Surprised, muffled sounds soon turned to languorous ones, as the other man returned the spontaneous burst of affection. After a little while, during which Tony's hands had found their way upon Bruce's chest, the latter set him free, a little breathless, and stared at the floor. “Could you not be a wanted felon with money galore and a gun-running gang just waiting to kill me? It'd make this a lot easier.”

Tony smiled, rather dreamily, and reached out to caress the non-bruised areas on Bruce's face. ”If you weren't such a stuck-up, hotheaded, impossible g-man just waiting to pull rank, then yeah, maybe.” He made an inviting sweep over to the half-eaten plate opposite of him. “But as for now, eat – mangiare. You need your strength back, and I want that pasta gone.”

~~~

It was the first night during which both consciously shared the same bed, and the first night during which they lay facing each other. After a brief moment of acclimatization, Tony scooted closer until the tip of his nose touched Bruce's. "Kiss me goodnight?" The lights were already off, but the Gothamite saw the whites in Tony's eyes, and the flicker of his lashes. Bruce closed his eyes and pursed his lips.  
  
His lips only hovered close to Tony's mouth at first, not making full contact. "What are we doing?" At the breathed-out question, Tony also closed his eyes and leaned in. The following kiss was gentle and tentative and nothing like they had ever kissed before. All too soon, however, Bruce's ministrations became slower, and the half-Italian watched him drift off and listened to his breathing evening out.   
  
A little smile then began to tug at the corners of Tony's mouth.   
"Ci innamoriamo. That's what we're doing."  
On the following day, a little after 5 pm, Tony entered his apartment in pleasant anticipation only to find it empty.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molto bello - Very nice  
> nonna - grandmother  
> stupido - stupid  
> Bene - Good  
> Molto grazie - Thank you very much  
> Ci innamoriamo - We fall in love


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourth base in this, everybody. Be warned, be giddy, be whatever you like :)

With quiet motions, Bruce slipped back inside the spacious loft and locked the door twice. After he had shed his new jacket and washed his hands, he entered the living room. The sight of the Italian's back greeted him from where Tony stood and faced the window, hands clasped behind his back. His shoulders were set tight, and he did not turn around at Bruce's entry.

Wayne rubbed his hands together to get them to warm up and cleared his throat. “You're back early. I just went round my apartment. Looks like you were right, someone's been trying to get their hands on some of the files. Good thing I left the majority of them at...” Without warning, Tony then swung around with force and backhanded him square across the cheek.

Bruce stood, completely taken aback, and stared at him with eyes wide open. Tony clenched both his fists and heaved deep breaths. “You _fucker!_ Che cazzo fai?” It did not take long for Bruce to get over his stupor and become angry as well. “Are you nuts, man?! What the fuck was that for?” The shorter man jabbed a finger into his direction. Dark brown eyes blazed with open fury.  
  
“Who told you it's okay for you to go out and run around without telling me beforehand, eh?” At the patronizing tone, Wayne burst out into a disbelieving snort. “What the hell, Tony – I'm not your fucking prisoner here!” Carbonelli threw his arms into the air and gesticulated about in a wild, elaborate way. “Think outside of your pig-headed little world there for a sec, Wayne, and see the big picture.”  
  
His accusatory tone and demeanor let the simmering anger in Bruce flare up once more. “Enlighten me then in your wise and comprehensive ways of seeing the big picture, genius.” For a moment, Tony looked like he was about to hit him again and Bruce steeled himself for a counter-maneuver. Nothing happened, except for the half-Italian to lower his arms and run a hand through his hair with an audible exhale.

“The only reason Cap and Hammer left you alive is to see how _I_ react, stupido! I'm on their hit list by now, for fuck's sake, all they need is some more proof to know I'm double-dealing!” Bruce frowned and tried for a plausible retort. When he had none, his anger deflated. “They wouldn't dare to cross you; the only financial source they have.” The laughter that escaped Tony's lips was neither a happy, nor a pleasant one.  
  
“I'm not that invaluable as you think, agente. The Vendicatori value trust more than money.” Wary hazel eyes darted in between dark brown ones. Eventually, Bruce gave a careless shrug. “Let me go then. I'm grateful for all that you've done, but it's about time we go our separate ways. Because, who knows – I might just have to arrest you after all, the longer I stay.” Carbonelli curled his lips into a knowing, supercilious grin.  
  
“Giusto! There was you and your morals. But, eh, what about this, _Bruce..._ ” In a slow, alluring manner that would have looked ridiculous on everybody else, Tony strutted near. Somewhat perplexed, Wayne realized it was the first time he had heard his first name slip from the other man's mouth. Carbonelli pronounced it more like 'Brootche', which made the Gothamite feel warm and special without knowing why.

Once Tony had planted himself right in front of him, his gaze roamed Bruce's appearance from top to bottom and back. Then he blinked up at the taller man through long, black lashes. “... what if I don't wanna _let_ you go?” Trying for resistance, Bruce cast him a scowl; something like faint defiance playing on his face. “I've never taken too well to being confined to... anything.”  
  
The tip of a tongue slowly appeared in the corner of Tony's mouth. Bruce followed its motions. “And I have always enjoyed a challenge. So, maybe you're my next challenge then, Bruce.” Carbonelli's voice had lowered to an enticing timbre, causing Wayne to swallow hard twice. “The way you say it drives me crazy.” His breath was warm on Tony's face as the latter leaned in. His goatee twisted into a smirk.  
  
“Say what?” At the same time, fingers started to ghost along the front of Bruce's jeans. Wayne inhaled with what little composure he still owned. His hands found their way around Tony's hips almost automatically. “My name.” His voice was rough as he gripped the half-Italian's ample buttocks, and their mouths went for each other no split second later.

Tony would continue to mumble Bruce's name in between kisses against his lips, all the while Wayne began to tug and tear at his clothes, pushing him back until they tumbled onto the mattress. Soon, the Gothamite knelt above the naked form of the shorter man who watched him through half-lidded, heady eyes. Bruce then bent down and began to place a trail of kisses on the tanned, lean body under him.

He felt Tony fumble with the buttons of his shirt and paused only long enough to discard the bothering item to the floor. The half-Italian all but yanked at his hair, once Bruce took him into his mouth in one swift motion, and began to suck him off with long, deep movements. In between incoherent moaning and the sounds of his mouth working down Tony's shaft, Bruce heard him panting out some non-English words.

Combined with a near desperate tug at his still clothed lower body, Wayne eventually released him and looked up at the heaving chest. “Gonna be over too soon... like this. Want you... to fuck me. Good and hard.” His cock gave an almost painful twitch against too tight jeans at the words. Quick to rid himself of his remaining clothes, Bruce watched how Tony fumbled for the nightstand.

After nimble fingers had sheathed his length and his fingers, Bruce put the bottle of lube aside. Not wanting to hurt his opposite, he settled himself behind Tony's back and began to prepare him. He felt the other man tense at first, so he went for his rock-hard erection again and stroked him between firm fingers. The shorter man gave a strangled growl and stopped his movements.  
  
“Enough foreplay. Fuck me, Bruce, fuck me and leave bruises.”  
No five seconds later, Bruce stilled long enough for Tony to be accustomed to all of him.  
“Tell me how you'd say that in Italian. How you want me to fuck you and leave bruises.”  
  
Wayne's voice was a gust of hot air against the back of his ear, causing Tony to smirk into the sheets.   
“Scopami e lasciami lividi.”   
With a grunt of pleasure, Bruce began to move in a slow but steady rhythm, intent on fulfilling Tony's outspoken wish.

When Antonio Carbonelli came, no ten minutes later, it was with Bruce Wayne's name on his lips. On what little energy and focus he still had left, Tony encouraged his lover to go harder and deeper and resulted in pushing him over the edge only moments after. They stayed in their intimate position until Bruce slipped out with care and got rid of the used condom. He rolled onto his back, exhaled in satiation, and felt the mattress move.

Mere moments later, Tony leaned his forehead against a sweat-dampened temple. “Definitely _not_ letting you go after this.” With a roguish, lazy smirk, Bruce allowed his eyes to droop shut. “This better not be a one-time hook up then.” A gentle hand then cupped and turned his cheek, before a pair of sensuous lips captured his. “Nella mente tu – sempre, sempre tu.”  
  
Though Bruce did not reply, he got shivers from the way Tony breathed into his ear.

~~~

When he woke, Bruce was alone in the king-sized bed. A single red rose in a slim crystal vase was next to him on the nightstand, on a tray filled with breakfast. The Gothamite could not help but allow a small, beatific smile to hush over his face. He turned to take another whiff of Tony's scent on the pillow when sounds from the hallway cut through the silence. Bleary, Wayne sat up and looked around.  
  
“Tony?”  
  
No answer prompted him to go for his hidden Glock under the corner of the mattress. Still naked, Bruce slid off the bed in a more secure position to cower behind the bed. His eyes darted around the entrance area where footsteps moved nearer. His finger unlatched the safety lock and he steadied his outstretched arm on the edge of the mattress.

“Don't move!”  
A female, frightened scream.  
“NO! Please, don't shoot! I'm the maid – I'm supposed to clean here!”

At her frantic voice, Bruce was quick to lower the gun. He was about to stand up but remembered his state of undress. “I'm sorry, Ma'am, I thought you were a burglar.” As he rambled on, Wayne made a hasty grab for the nearest sheets. With a blanket wrapped around his lower body in one hand, gun in the other, Bruce sat back down on the bed and eyed the wide-eyed woman. Her heart-shaped face twisted in puzzlement.

“Mister Carbonelli did not say something about guests. I am sorry, I will come back later.” She was quick to retreat even though Bruce tried to amend and apologize for his actions. Wrapped like a mummy, he did not even attempt to follow her and heard the door click shut moments later. Shaking his head with a smirk at the comedic outcome, Bruce secured and hid his semi-automatic back in its place.

With a piece of delicious Italian pasty in between his lips, he padded over into the bathroom to shower and shave. As soon as he was done and had dressed in what little selection of spare clothes he had brought along from his apartment, Bruce send his absent host a text message. _'Gonna swing by my flat to get my mail. Back in 30 min.'_ Tony's answer was quick and brief. _'Nice try. Stay in, delivery service.'_  
  
Less than twenty minutes later, Antonio entered his apartment, a neat pile under his arm. “How often are we going to play this game, agente?” His tone was playful, as he held out the letters into Bruce's direction, only to pull them away when he made a move to grab it. "One of these days, I swear I'll have you handcuffed and bound to this bed. Safer for all.” Grumpy, Bruce snatched the items out of Tony's hands.  
  
“Keep your dirty fantasies to yourself, Italian Stallion.”  
Despite the flippancy, the last bit made Tony click his tongue in a proud fashion.  
“You complaining? Certainly not when you were screaming out my name last night.”  
  
A blush crept up Bruce's neck as he busied himself with ripping open envelope after envelope. “Oh, your maid was here by the way. Got the scare of her life when I almost shot her.” From where he had sauntered into the kitchen to fiddle with the espresso maker, Tony went rigid. “What... what'd she look like? About 5'3? With red hair? Pretty?” Bruce nodded, confused about the peculiar questions. Tony shook his head, all grim.  
  
“I gave my maid the week off in advance - before I brought you here.”

Realization dawned on Bruce's face. “So you're saying...” The half-Italian took out his phone and switched it off. “Nat usually leaves people laying in a puddle of blood instead of cleaning up after them. Fuck! We have to leave. Immediamente. I'll get you somewhere safe and then...” Wayne cast him a look that seemed to say 'oh, please' and went for what meanwhile was labeled his side of the bed.

For the second time in a day, he grabbed his trusted handgun. The sound of a clip being checked filled the air. “Any more of your parental advise?” When Carbonelli rummaged around his closets, Wayne nodded to himself. “Good. Because I'm coming with you.” Tony's head shot up and he stared at his opposite as if he had just seen a ghost. “Dimenticalo!” Already at the door and slipping into his shoes, Bruce cast him a rotten look.  
  
“It's a good thing that I don't care, and that I got your car keys.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Che cazzo fai? - What the fuck?  
> Giusto! - Right!  
> Nella mente tu; sempre, sempre tu - On my mind, there's only you; always only you  
> Dimenticalo! - Forget it!


	13. Chapter 13

It was past 9 pm, Tony still had not returned to the dingy motel they were staying at, and Bruce got more worried by the minute.

He almost breathed a sigh of relief once a familiar figure appeared outside, and the man in question entered the room seconds later. Carbonelli looked tired and shaken as he slumped onto the edge of the bed. “Got rid of all mobile phones and the car. Never thought I'd end up in one of those shitholes.” Wayne threw him a mock-sympathetic look and went over to the plastic table in the corner.  
  
“While you were away, I have seen to getting us some food and supplies. No deli stuff though.” Bruce's jaunty ways earned him a frustrated and disdained look from the other man. “Reckless bastard. I told you I want you to stay put and out of the line of fire, capisce?” Bruce Wayne slammed the paper bag back down and pointed a finger at the shorter man. “That makes two of us, you goddamn idiot! I'm not the only one in danger here!”  
  
Bruce moved to look out of the window into the backyard. Tony harrumphed. “That's not the same. I know exactly what I'm doing.” Aghast, Wayne swung around to frown at him. “Do you? That's what you fucking think, Tony? Still think you're invincible? You're a fool!” A sad smile crossed Tony's features as he regarded his enraged lover. When he attempted to touch him, Bruce jerked away and slammed a fist against the window frame.

"Don't."

Tony sighed. “Don't be like that - I don't wanna fight you, too. Amore, per favore... _Bruce_.”  By now Bruce's fingers were gripping the window frame so tight that his knuckles turned white. At the way Tony's voice sounded tired and pleading, his current anger evaporated and got replaced with dejection. Antonio Carbonelli sensed the change and moved closer, wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, and leaned in.

“We always knew it wasn't gonna be easy, tesorino. The only way for me to get out alive would be to hand myself in, and we both know what that's going to mean as well, right?” The Gothamite squeezed his eyes shut with a pained expression and hung his head low. Tony raked his fingers over his stomach and felt the strong set of muscles twitch under his touch. He gave a little hum and nodded to himself.

“And even if I testify against the Vendicatori, I'd still be facing 5- to 30-year sentences according to federal law. Plus the mandatory minimum sentences of 25 years for each subsequent conviction, served back-to-back. Slim chances for you to see me again while I look this good.” Bruce heaved a shuddering sigh and twisted in the embrace. Tony stood close by and tried for a cheerful facade that came out more than forced.

In slow motion, Wayne then dipped his head lower, until his forehead connected with Tony's. “I'm not leaving your side, no matter what.” While the statement lacked volume, it did not lack determination. “Noble thought. Since I don't wanna rot behind bars or end with a bullet to the brain, however, I'm open for your ideas.” Angered by the hopelessness of the situation, Bruce clamped his mouth shut until it was a grim, small line.

Tony saw the slight flare of his nostrils. He got on his toes and pulled back enough to be able to place a little peck on the tip of Bruce's nose. “Unless of course, we go with that one, other possibility I see...” Upon his cautious words, Bruce graced him with a wary look to which Tony concluded. “... we'll take the whole system down and disappear when it falls apart; once and for all.”

Incredulous, Wayne furrowed his brows and drew back to hold Tony at arm's length. “You don't happen to have gone insane in the past two minutes, have you?” The half-Italian blew out his cheeks and scrunched up one side of his face. “Little more faith there, cuore mio. I'm not called a genius for nothing. I'll get the ball rolling, dig out some information, bring it around. The rest is up to you.”

As soon as the true meaning behind Tony's statement hit him, Bruce began to shake his head. “... no! Nonono, I don't want that. Too dangerous. Are you crazy?” At that, Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli could not help but burst out laughing. “Excuse me, have we met? I'm one of America's top gunrunners. What's a little cyber crime?” Tony's laissez-faire attitude both angered and exasperated Bruce at the same time.  
  
“Bad enough you're bragging like it's trivial offense. If they catch you, you're a dead man.” With a reassuring smile, the shorter man interlinked his arms behind Bruce's neck. “Just one little data leak, then we're good. I know where to look, they won't suspect a thing.” Wayne felt his lover's hands play with the hair in his nape and cast his eyes heavenwards. “God, we're both fucked beyond belief.”

After a brief moment, Bruce then put his hands on Tony's hips. “We need to leave everything behind after this is through, you know that.” He felt Tony melt into his embrace and drew him closer until his hands rested on Tony's rear. “L'Italia è molto bello, il mio amante.” Wayne snorted. Despite trying to stay adamant and talk his lover out of his foolish plan, he started to react to the way Tony's warm body felt against his.

His hands began to get a life of their own and started kneading the luscious backside hidden beneath thin dress pants. “You know I don't speak the language.” With a purr at the both tender and rough ministrations, Tony ground his pelvis into Bruce's. “Yet. I'll teach you the most important words, carino. Today's lesson: Facciamo l'amore.” He began to nuzzle the taller man's neck and risked another glimpse upwards.

A dark storm had begun to brew within those hazel eyes, and Tony placed a kiss upon the bottom of his jaw. “It means make love to me, Bruce – make me forget anything else just for tonight.” Without warning, his younger lover lifted him up under his buttocks and sealed their lips. Tony smiled against Bruce's mouth all the way over to the small bed with its tacky flower bedding.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Capisce? - (do you) understand?  
> Amore, per favore - Love, please  
> cuore mio - my heart  
> L'Italia è molto bello, il mio amante. - Italy is very beautiful, my lover.  
> carino - cutie / sweetie  
> Facciamo l'amore - Let's make love  
> 


	14. Chapter 14

The sound of police sirens woke Bruce from his blissful slumber with a start, after what had been a mind-numbing night of lovemaking. The alarm clock flashed 2:13 am in big, red digits. The mattress next to him was cold and empty. Cursing out loud, Wayne sat up straight and switched on the lights. “Goddamn asshole!” Throwing the blanket aside, Bruce got up and peeked through the curtains.

His rented Chrysler Sebring still stood untouched. A drunk guy was arguing with an officer near the trashcans. Adrenaline ebbing off, Bruce bent down to pick up his boxer briefs. He then noticed a small, crumpled piece of paper next to the bed. A handwritten address, scribbled in a rush - or in the dark. Wayne put it aside before he got dressed and cleaned up, grabbed all belongings and headed out.

He sat behind the wheel of the black car no ten minutes later, speeding off to the coordinates which the built-in GPS had identified as the docks. He switched off the car's headlights way before reaching the warehouse at the end of the harbor area, which lay dark and uninhabited. A final glimpse at his watch in the dim flicker of the streetlight above, then Bruce made his way in, gun in his hand.

Some faint, bluish light from a small room in the back caught his attention. His anxiety ebbed off when he made out the outline of a familiar, curly head of hair. Sitting in front of a small notebook, Tony continued to work until he heard a quiet call. In no time, the half-Italian had his gun ready but lowered it as soon as he identified his visitor. His face twisted with anger, bewilderment, and visible tension.

“Why are you here, dannazione?”  
Tony hissed while his fingers continued to run over the keyboard at mind-numbing speed.  
“Could ask you the same. I should've never agreed to the whole idiocy that is your plan.”  
  
The shorter man mumbled a few words in his mother's tongue. His eyes stayed on the screen.  
“Fuck I don't have time for this now.”  
Bruce's thumb played with the safety hatch of his gun as he kept an eye on their surroundings.  
  
“Then work faster.”  
Tony's jaw moved as he put a second USB stick in and let the first disappear within his pocket.  
“Other couples fight about the toothpaste on the sink, y'know.”  
  
Exasperated, Bruce swallowed his underlying tension and strained to hear towards the door.  
“Hurry up, goddammit. Think I just heard a car up front.”  
Frantic, Tony's head shot up. Bruce unlocked his gun and clenched his teeth.  
  
“I'll check and keep you covered. Hurry.”  
  
Wayne tiptoed out of the back office to peek down to the main entrance of the warehouse. He spotted a guy with a gun who sneaked inside and ducked back into the shadow of a crate. As he made his way back, Bruce pondered if it was one of the men who had beaten him up. “Blond guy with a Beretta snooping around.” His voice was less than a whisper as he slipped back into the room.

Tony had just shut down the notebook and furrowed his brows in concern.  
“Hawkeye. Best aim by far. We need to go, quick.”  
Neither of them saw the flash of dark red hair as they made their way downstairs.

Though Natasha Romanov was by far the stealthiest assassin of the Vendicatori, even her 9 mm with its suppressor gave a soft click as she pulled the trigger. Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli sensed rather than heard his former team colleague; saw the millisecond her gun flashed in the semi-darkness, aiming for Bruce's heart. And wasted no more time.

As Bruce fell to the floor from the force Tony pushed him aside with, everything happened in slow motion. He saw the way the bullet wedged itself through Tony's left shoulder, saw how the impact sent him spiraling backward until he hit the ground with a dull thud. It was then that Bruce Thomas Wayne saw red. With a half roll sideways, he grabbed his knocked down semi-automatic, got onto one knee and fired three shots.

The echo had not yet faded out when Barton buckled and grabbed onto his thigh with a single, bloodcurdling scream. His hidden female partner reacted in an instant. Four shots fired into Bruce's direction made him duck for cover long enough to drag her wounded colleague out of the line of fire. The sound of screeching tires was heard outside soon after before everything fell silent again, apart from Bruce's heavy breathing.

In an instant, Wayne dropped down to his knees next to the shot man. He was relieved to see Tony starting to move on his own, groping for his injured shoulder. His face was twisted into a pain-filled mask as he tried to get up without success. Bruce inspected the entrance wound which started to form a dark-red circle right in the middle of the other man's rotator cuff.

“Fucking hell, why did you...? No, don't move too much now!”  
Together they got Tony back up into a standing position. The half-Italian stumbled against him.  
Bruce did not fail to notice the blood-spattered marks on the concrete floor.

“T... think it's best if you drive, tesoro.”  
After he had helped Tony into the passenger seat, Bruce was quick to roam the first aid kit.  
“Here, press this onto the wound as tight as you can.”

He fastened the seat belt around Tony's huddled form and drove as fast as he could without causing suspicion. Wayne calculated at least two hours until they would have reached the destination he had in mind. Next to him, Tony grunted and tried to shift into a more vertical position. “How are you feeling?” Carbonelli glanced down to where his fingers were red and sticky from his own blood.  
  
“Like I got shot in the shoulder. Hurts as fuck, but I'll live. Where are you going?”  
Bruce reinforced his grip on the steering wheel and checked the rear view mirror again.  
“An old friend of mine. Knows a lot about bullet wounds. Plus, he'll keep us safe.”  
  
Suppressing a hiss, Tony leaned his head back.   
“Better tell him I'm used to room service and breakfast in bed.”  
Bruce noticed the gauze already turned red but said nothing and pressed his foot down on the accelerator.  
  
After the first hour of nonstop driving, he stopped at an unpopulated gas station, covered Tony's shivering form with a blanket, and slipped into the pay phone booth around the corner. A brief talk later, the coins had rattled through the machine and Wayne went to refuel. He purchased two bottles of water and hurried to get back into the driver's seat. Upon his entry, Tony did not move; head lolled to the side.

A spur of fear jolted through Bruce, and he quickly pressed two fingers onto the shorter man's neck to search for a pulse. After a few moments of panic, he found it, if a bit irregular. At his touch, Tony stirred lightly. “'m okay, amante, 'm okay. Jus' tired.” Bruce made him sip a little bit of water before he set the car in motion.

By the time they stopped in front of a rather nondescript house deep within a suburban part of Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, Tony was out cold for good. After a brief struggle, Bruce managed to get him out of the seat, still wrapped in the blanket, and hoisted him up in his arms. Before he had to use his foot to knock on the door, it opened in a swift motion and he stared up into a weathered, familiar countenance.  
  
“About time, Master Wayne. Get him up on the first floor, second room to the right.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dannazione - damn  
> tesoro - sweetheart  
> amante - lover


	15. Chapter 15

“More hot water.”  
  
Bruce did as he was told, reached out for the kettle, and poured some into the steel bowl on the nightstand. The water held a pinkish tint, just like the rags that lay strewn around the bedside. The retired RAF medic was busy cutting off the tatters of Tony's once expensive suit and shirt until he was able to examine the wound. The bullet had gone clean through, its exit wound being larger than the entry wound.

The previous bandage was completely soaked through, and Alfred began to rattle off information as he was summoning his makeshift equipment. "The wound needs to be washed out with antibiotic infused saline or iodine. I don't have either, but we will need to sanitize the surrounding tissue. There's still a large chance for infection, though." Bruce watched Tony's closed eyes and heaving chest with concern.  
  
"Anything else we can do?"  
Pennyworth tilted his head over to the direction of the kitchen.  
"There's some alcohol in the closet, bring me that. Some soap. And more hot water."  
  
Alfred turned his gaze down to his patient. He touched his chest to get him responsive. "This will likely sting like hell, Sir." Tony blinked his eyes open and focused on him. His mouth formed a lopsided smirk. "M-make that Tony and it'll be fine." The elder man nodded before he began to administer his duties. Once Bruce had returned, he bent forward to grip Tony's trembling, outstretched hand within both of his own.

During the whole procedure, the half-Italian never once screamed out loud. He kept on gritting his teeth and panting through his nose, but the Gothamite saw the tears slipping out of Tony's tightly squeezed eyes. After ten minutes, Alfred took out a bulky dressing of gauze and applied it to the wound. He then indicated for Bruce to come closer and switch places.

“Keep it there, but with moderate pressure. We will have to clean the wound every two hours to fight off bacteria.” Pennyworth then cast his semi-conscious patient a concerned look. “The wound needs to be stuffed fast as possible – this will hurt even more than cleaning it, I'm afraid, but it is necessary. Deep down to the muscle.” Bruce gave a grim nod and absentmindedly stroked the cold fingers of the man on the bed.

During the next few hours, a fever began to set in, despite their meticulous cleaning.

The Gothamite spent the majority of the early morning dabbing a cool and wet rag to Tony's feverish brow, unmindful of his own mind-numbing fatigue, and eyed the pale countenance with concern. Although it was a small, single bed, Tony still looked far too lost and fragile. Careful, Bruce reached out and clasped one of Tony's hands in his. It caused the injured man to flutter his eyes open. “Y... you done workin' m' over?”

The former FBI agent nodded and tried to put up some forced cheerfulness. “Whenever you feel like taking a bullet meant for me, I've got a good advice for you – don't.” Tony blinked down to where Bruce's warm fingers gave his a gentle massage. “Sempre e ancora. In a heartbeat. Sorry, amore, but I come with a conscience these days. 'ntirely your fault. You 'n your damned path to righteousness got m' good.”

Out of instinct, Wayne placed a kiss on the back of Tony's hand. “It's best you rest now. You'll feel better in the morning. Wake me if you need something.” Tony then squeezed his fingers, albeit weak, urging him to stay. “Wait, I... nev'r told you... 'bout that night I came t'your house... th' laundry room...” Bruce's mouth curved in slight wistfulness. “How would I ever forget.” Tony swallowed against a rough throat.  
  
“... I was s'p-- s'pposed t' kill you.”  
Silence. Hazel-green eyes narrowed in suspicion.  
“Why do you tell me that?”  
  
Eyelids heavy from medication and exhaustion, Antonio Carbonelli swallowed.  
“Can't keep a secret from t'man I love.”  
He drifted off without noticing the peculiar look on Bruce Wayne's countenance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sempre e ancora - Again and again


	16. Chapter 16

When Alfred checked on his patient later on, dusk was falling and both men were fast asleep. Bruce had folded his tall physique onto the small settee in the corner of the room. His head was turned towards the backrest, an arm dangling down onto the floor. Tony stirred ever so lightly when Pennyworth switched on the small lamp by the nightstand and began to remove the used, damp dressings.

Two large brown eyes opened with effort, then the half-Italian managed a tired smile. “Hey, medico miracolo, come stai?” Alfred opened up a fresh set of sterile gauze. “I should be the one asking. The bleeding looks like it has stopped, molto bene.” At the also whispered words, Tony looked surprised. “You speak Italian?” Pennyworth pursed his lips and set out to disinfect the mangled flesh once more.  
  
“Solo un po. Io sono appassionato di firenze. Che bella città.”   
  
Dazed delight splayed out on Tony's features and made him ignore the stinging feeling as Alfred dabbed and tore on his shredded shoulder. “Molto impressionante. My mother's family from bella Milano. Some day, I'll go back.” Without thinking, Antonio Carbonelli glanced over to the sofa in the back. “And... maybe I'll take him along as well. If he wants to, that is.” Pennyworth gave an affirmative tilt of the head.  
  
“I don't see why he wouldn't. You're the first person he allows to bleed all over my house.” Tony had to grin, despite the pain and the sluggishness. “So did he tell you anything about me... at all?” A pair of raised eyebrows and a slightly reprimanding look. “No. Master Wayne has always been very withdrawn, even with me.” All curious, Tony watched the deft fingers re-bandage his shoulder. Then his gaze went back up.  
  
“With you calling him that – what's the connection between you two? Bruce hasn't said much.” Pennyworth's hands continued to move with expertise and effortlessness. “I raised the boy up if you will.” At that, Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli lapsed into an incredulous moment of silence. “So you're his... his father?” Alfred shook his head, though not without a wistful look.  
  
“Not in the biological sense, no. But I was the one who took him in after his parents died.” Rendered speechless, Tony gulped against a sticky throat and blinked. “I... I didn't know that. He never said a word.” Almost instantly, he then shook his head to himself. “Ah, ma perché, he's got no reason to tell me. No reason at all.” Alfred tutted as he twirled the latest string of bandages into one another.  
  
“Rest assured the moment will come for him to tell you on his own. Give him time.” Carbonelli gave a little hiss as the elder man finished his work with a tug on the gauze. "The two of us... it's madness. We're no good for each other. _I'm_ no good for _him_. And yet...” Tony breathed a few short puffs through his nose and looked at the couch again. “Yet we can't stay away. I can't stay away. Che strano. Never knew something like this.”

Pennyworth's expression grew a bit softer than mere moments ago. “Even if I'm not his father, I can still see what's going on. He is in love, signor. With you.” Both of them glimpsed over to where Bruce was still fast asleep. Tony smiled with sad affection. “He hasn't picked the noblest choice with me. Doveva innamorarmi di un uomo sbagliato.” The elder man's clear blue eyes suddenly held a hint of amusement and affection.  
  
“I don't think he fell in love with a wrong man at all. At least not if the feeling is mutual.”  
Determination flickered inside Tony's dark brown eyes.  
“Io gli voglio bene... molto, molto bene.”  
  
Alfred Pennyworth gave a gentle pat to Tony's non-injured shoulder cap. “That's all I need to know, and all there needs to be, then. Master Wayne does not trust easily. The fact that he trusts you means a lot, Master Antonio.” Even after Alfred had left the room and switched off the bedside lamp again, Tony lay awake for another couple of minutes and felt his injured arm throb underneath the bandages. 

He watched the silhouette of the sleeping man across from him with a thoughtful look until his eyelids drooped shut.

~~~

When Tony woke the next time, it was to the far away sounds of birds singing outside. Dazed, he blinked the room into focus and swallowed against a dry throat. The blinds were still down, but the window was tilted and a gentle breeze caused the shadow of curtains to swing. A faint, lingering smell of coffee and bacon wafted over to him, and his stomach rumbled into the silence. The bed gave a soft creak as he tried to move.

His shoulder protested with a sharp, stinging tug, so he leaned back. Not soon after, a head poked around the ajar door. Tony took in the sight of an unshaven Bruce Wayne, dressed in a for him atypical combo of checkered flannel shirt and baggy pants. He carried a little tray with a steaming plate and mug. Bruce was quick to step in and pull the rickety wooden chair close to the bedside.

“Looks like you might get your breakfast in bed after all.”  
His try for witticism got him a weak smile in return.  
“Please don't tell me I look like I feel, cause that'd be like shit. What time is it?”  
  
Bruce dipped the overturned alarm clock back to check the red digits.  
“8 am. You should drink something.”  
Tony tried to put up a cheerful, brave facade.  
  
“A single malt'd be great, thanks.” Instead of an answer, Wayne slipped onto the edge of the mattress with care and helped Tony take a few sips from a glass of water. He got in touch with too warm skin when the half-Italian dipped his burning forehead against the crook of Bruce's neck. “Ask your Alfredo if he's pumped out extra liters of my blood for donation or something. I feel snogged by a vampire.”  
  
Wayne swallowed hard, and wet his lips with a swipe of the tongue.  
“You had scared me real good there the past few hours. For a while, I thought...”  
His voice was hoarse as he put his palms over Tony's and squeezed tight for a second.

“Italian's are hard to kill off, amante, don't you watch enough movies?”  
Bruce gave a gentle harrumph, together with a careful, crooked smile.  
“At least fifty people died in the Godfather trilogy alone. Your argument is invalid.”

Tony rolled his eyes, but stopped when it made him even more dizzy.  
“Always the last word, agente, eh? I'm miserable and weak, you have to be gentle with me.”  
A kiss to his forehead revealed an unusual amount of stubble on Wayne's cheeks and chin.

“Oh, I will. How about you eat first, and I'll help you get cleaned up afterwards?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, medico miracolo, come stai? - Hey, miracle doc, how are you?  
> molto bene - very good  
> Solo un po. Io sono appassionato di Firenze. Che bella città. - Just a bit. I'm passionate about Florence. What a beautiful city.  
> Molto impressionante - Very impressive  
> bella Milano - beautiful Milan  
> Che strano - How strange  
> Doveva innamorarmi di un uomo sbagliato - He had to fall in love with a wrong man  
> Io gli voglio bene... molto, molto bene - I love him... very, very much


	17. Chapter 17

“Daily Planet, Kent speaking?”

“Since when are you answering you mobile like that?”

“... if this is who I think it is, you've got guts calling me after all this time.”

“It is, and I have. Surprised?”

“Last time we spoke, you slammed the door of my apartment shut. So yeah, kinda.”

“Hm, I remember. Not a nice way to end a conversation, really. We should revise on that.”

“Okay, what exactly do you want? You're not the type to come calling for sentimental reasons.”

“I need you to blow something wide open, like – nationally wide. Think you can do that?”

“What do you have? On whom?”

“Best not discussed on the phone. Can we meet?”

“I'm in New Jersey at the moment, covering a story. Where are you?”  
  
“Remember that place we went, summer 2009? Meet me there. Tonight.”

“You _did_ listen when I told you where I am? Contrary to popular belief, I can't fly.”

“Less than two hours by car from Jersey. Knowing you, you've already fastened your seat belt.”

“Good God, you're still as infuriating as I remember you to be, Bruce.”

“... I'll see you at 7, Clark.”

~~

Jack's Tavern was a little bar no four miles from Bruce's current hideout. It was moderately populated so that the tall, athletic man in his early thirties found his non-date in a quiet corner. As expected, the Gothamite cut right to the chase and resumed the situation in less than five.

“And now they're after you _and_ him? You've always had a penchant for dramatics.”

Bruce put the bottleneck to his lips and took a sip of his Bud Light. “Not true. I rather prefer to work from the sidelines, away from the spotlight. But this time, I guess I had no choice.” Kent signaled the waitress for another beer and studied the man opposite of him.

“Because it's gotten personal. You've gotten involved, personally.”  
When Bruce chose to stay silent, Clark mimicked his incommunicado until he got served.  
“The details don't matter. Fact is that I've just witnessed the tip of the proverbial iceberg.”

They sipped in mutual silence for another few seconds, then Kent put his bottle down. “So to sum it up: You're suspended, have a wounded mafia boss with you, and are on the run from both his organization and the FBI that's conniving the whole gun-running business?” Despite his initial reaction, Bruce raised his head to grace his friend with a magnificent smile.  
  
“You make it sound like a real catch 22. Where's all of your unyielding enthusiasm, Clark?”  
Said man responded with a disparaging snort and looked away.  
“Went out with your impromptu moving out of my apartment and going to New York, probably.”

People in the corner went for the only pool table in the back, and both Bruce and Clark watched them set up their game. Then Bruce cleared his throat. “Like I said, I need your help. See what you can find, this is your type of story after all. I also have a little headstart for you.” Clark looked skeptical until Bruce pulled an USB stick out of his jeans pocket.

“I want you to have it – if you're in on the thing, that is. It's the backup of a backup. And it's proof.” Neither man moved; Kent simply regarded the stick before his eyes went up to Bruce's face again. “Proof of what?” Wayne closed his fingers around the small object in his palm. “There's a connection between Pierce and the head of the Vendicatori. More than that even.”

The reporter did not make a move, except for his eyes now darting from Bruce's face down to his hand and back. After a few heartbeats, Clark pursed his lips. “You're really convinced about the whole thing, aren't you. I can see it in your eyes.” Wayne frowned though Kent gave a small smirk. “I remember that certain glint in your eyes, from when it was directed at me.”  
  
Bruce pressed his lips together into a thin, hard line.  
“Listen, I...”  
The reporter pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose.

“No need for explanations. Been there, done that. Though, no, I've never fallen for a bad guy. Only for the good guy who turned out to be too fleeting, skittish and reticent for me to take it further, to make him stay.” Bruce's eyes went down to fixate the salt and pepper pot on the table. “Clark.” His voice was flat. “Sorry, not gonna go down that route again, we agreed.” Kent's blue eyes went softer.

“I hope he's worth it, okay? I really wish he can make you happy.” He reached out to briefly cover the Gothamite's back of the hand with his palm. Kent then used the element of surprise to gently pry the USB stick out of Bruce's tight grip. “I'll see what's cooking and get back to you as soon as possible. Alfred still got that same number?”

Wayne nodded, about to withdraw his hand. It was Clark, however, who took his away first.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is getting tougher than I thought!  
> Thankfully though, the lovely and talented and all around awesome Batsocks was able to provide the necessary butt-kicker (read: supportive) attitude to my lazing around! So thank you dear, for keeping me on my toes and being the best muse I could wish for!

Bruce parked Alfred's gray Volvo XC90 in the small garage and made his way upstairs into the room he shared with Tony. It was a little after 9 pm, and Alfred was nowhere to be found, so Bruce made sure to move around as quietly as possible. When he entered, Tony was on his feet, pacing around with his arm in a sling. He wore a combo of too large gray sweatpants and a t-shirt which Alfred most likely had bestowed upon him.

From the look he cast Bruce, Tony was also peeved beyond belief.  
  
“Alfredo said where you went. Who's Clark? Eh, no – think I know who he is. Question's rather – why are you meeting Clark?” Still jaded from the many stirred up memories, Bruce went for brusque. “I don't owe you any kind of explanation for something that's none of your business.” Tony's unshaven face turned into a scowl, and he made a grand gesture with his uninjured arm.

“I'm leaving this place. Adesso. Go and have fun fucking your old flame down in a shabby motel – that's how you like it, apparently. I'm out! I'm not your, your... plaything, capisce?!” Bruce stepped in front of the door Tony was about to storm off through. “What you're pulling here is completely off the rocker and needs to stop. Now.” Dark brown eyes blazed up at him.

“Let me go. Move out of my way.”  
Tall and solid as a rock, Wayne remained where he was.  
“No. Never.”  
  
Despite his injured shoulder, Tony attempted to push past. As gentle as possible, Bruce clasped him by the elbows and held him tight. “Stop being such a primadonna. I won't let you leave.” Carbonelli snorted, full of wounded pride. “You're not making me stay either. Not as second fiddle.” The Gothamite's eyes glinted with a hint of frenzy. He then shook the shorter man twice.

“What the hell has gotten into you? We're in this together, like you said! Or was that empty talk?”  
Tony stopped to struggle in his firm grip and wrinkled mouth and eyebrows in disgust.  
“I don't like to be played, Bruce, thought that much was clear.”

Wayne's eyes darted all over Carbonelli's enraged features, focused and sharp. Then they became softer.  
“You're beautiful when you're furious, Italian accent and all.”  
Before Tony had the chance to slap him for his audacity, Bruce drew him close and pressed their lips together.

Muffled sounds escaped the back of Tony's throat before his reluctant mouth began to get responsive. His good arm reached up and cupped Bruce's unshaven cheek. “I'm gonna show you what I am. I'm a horribly jealous person. I don't share well, never have, never will.” In between murmurs, Tony ground his pelvis against the taller man. It earned him a muffled sound that either was approval or protest.

Antonio gave a feeble push to the Gothamite's broad chest.  
“Shush it. Clothes off, all of them. I need to see what's mine. Mark what's mine.”  
While Bruce's body responded all too willingly at the prospect, his mind tried to appeal to the remains of his functioning brain.

“Your shoulder – it's still... and Alfred... what's with Alfred? If he gets in by any chance...” Instead of an answer, Tony's good hand had slipped down below the waistband of Bruce's jeans. “I can be quiet, amore, as my mouth is going to be busy. The question is – can you?” He began to fondle the growing bulge with unrelenting expertise. The Gothamite groaned, half-aroused, half-exasperated.

“You're impossible.”  
He allowed his counterpart to drag and push him over to the bed. The grin on Tony's face turned predatory.  
“Non ho detto mai di essere perfetto!”

Once the mattress hit the hollow of his knees, Bruce dropped backward, pants around his ankles and his shirt bunched up to his chest. Towering above, Tony placed himself in between his legs and spread them wide. He waited until Wayne had also discarded the shirt. “Are you going to stand there staring all day?” Bruce's tone was part-mocking as he crossed his arms behind his head.

The half-Italian let his gaze wander all over the exposed, freckled skin with its many littered scars, and made a tutting noise behind closed lips. “That would be stimulating, but not satisfying enough.” Steadying himself on Bruce's knees, Tony lowered himself to the floor and took his half-erect length into his mouth right down to the base. A low grunt escaped the Gothamite, and his hands reached out to curl in Tony's hair.

“Fuck, you're far too good at this for someone who just got shot.” Bruce eventually had to clamp eyes and mouth shut when Tony administered a steady pace. The only sound in the room was Bruce's occasional moan when Tony began to circle the tip and used his hand to give some firm strokes to the shaft. “You're far too talkative for someone who's about to get sucked off.”  
  
Usually one for always wanting to have the final word, the Gothamite bit his bottom lip and willed his hips to stop from jerking upwards. Tony's mouth was hot; his tongue and teeth working their magic on his length. With two moist fingers he had stuck in his mouth, Tony then pressed into him, causing Bruce to jolt and growl in surprise.

“Fuck, Tony--”  
  
The muscles in his thighs began to twitch on their own accord. Antonio went over to taking long licks to the sensitive area underneath his cock, and Bruce could not help but whimper when his lover gently crooked his fingers to touch his prostate. “Si, amore, I'm fucking you. Because you're mine. Mine alone.” Tony's voice began to sound like a dark, heady mantra as he pleasured his lover with his fingers and his mouth.

No two minutes later, Bruce Wayne came with a muffled cry of pleasure, his whole body quivering under the experienced ministrations. As he lay in his post-orgasm haze, Tony slowly inched up to lie next to him on the bed and regard the spent man in satisfaction. A single bead of sweat lingered in the hollow of Bruce's throat, and Tony bent forward to lick and kiss it away. Hazel eyes opened and took him in.

“Happy now?”  
The half-Italian smirked and shifted so that his bandaged shoulder was unaffected.  
“As long as there are no more secret Clark meetings, si, I'm happy.”

Bruce turned his head to watch him with something akin to amusement and exasperation. “Clark is our ticket to getting back in the clear. He's a reporter; he's got connections to higher places. He will blow apart the connection between the FBI and the Vendicatori and we're good.” Tony screwed up his nose. Up close, the Gothamite focused on the tiny little freckles on it.

“ _You're_ good you mean. I'm still the infamous gun-running operator about to be put behind bars, no matter how well your Clarkie is going to do his homework. Especially if he's doing his homework very well.” Bruce rolled over, careful with the injuries of his lover, and framed his face in between his palms. “Then it's best you start thinking about our new fake ID and background stories already.”  
  
Any objections Antonio Carbonelli might have had got smothered in between Bruce Wayne's lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non ho detto mai di essere perfetto! - I never said that I'm perfect!


	19. Chapter 19

Looking back, Bruce did not really know how they made it out in time.

His body must have worked on autopilot from the moment Alfred had urgently knocked at their door, rousing the two entangled men from their sleep, up to the point where he sat behind the wheel of the XC 90 and burned rubber after being chased by two black Dodge RAM trucks. Alfred and Tony clawed themselves into their seats, both pale and still in their respective sleepwear.

Bruce was bare-chested and pant-less under his hastily thrown over parka and boxer shorts; his naked feet pressing hard upon the Volvo's accelerator and clutch. Out of nowhere, bullets ricocheted off the SUV's rear end. All three men winced and ducked. “Keep your heads down!” With gritted teeth, Bruce performed some wild, swerving maneuvers. Tony grimaced at the jerking motions and clasped his shoulder.

“Where's your gun?”  
The Volvo howled out loud as its driver abused the manual transmission.  
“In the pocket of those pants I'm not wearing.”

Wayne briefly glimpsed over to his right just as Pennyworth pulled the glove box open to reveal a small .22 caliber gun. Without hesitation, the elder man thrust it into Tony's waiting hand. “Here, take this. One clip only.” The mobster was quick to grab the firearm and cast him a tight grin. “I start to like you more and more, Alfredo.” He pressed a button to which the electric window lowered. Air flow whipped loud in their ears.

Bruce stared at Tony's scrambling through the rear-view mirror as if he were insane.  
“What the hell are you doing?”  
Antonio winced, twisted onto his knees, and stuck his head and arm out of the small port.

“Hold it steady, goddammit!”

From the five shots he fired, two bullets wedged themselves into the windshield of the first Dodge, causing its driver to veer over to the side and come to a standstill in a half-twisted motion. Alfred Pennyworth turned in his seat to watch the spectacle through the rear window. And cocked an eyebrow soon after. “He's good, Master Wayne.” Bruce gave a grunt and yanked the SUV into a narrow alley.  
  
Trash cans left and right bounced off the car. Antonio involuntarily ducked back inside when a metal lid flung against the door with a clash, missing his head just by mere inches. The glare he shot at the back of the driver's seat went past Wayne unnoticed. “And _he's_ fucking crazy!” Undeterred, the former FBI agent kept flooring it, eyes narrowed and focused on the small passage in front.  
  
"What's new."  
  
A sickening crunch and flying sparks. Bewildered, Alfred and Tony stared at the stump where the passenger's side mirror had been. “Fuck no, tesoro! Stay away from the walls, per favore. We're no sardines!” Pennyworth's face spoke of disapproval. “This was a brand-new car, Master Wayne.” Tony cast him a sympathetic grin as he closed the window and locked the pistol. “I'll cover for it, Alfredo, no worries.”

Bruce cast his lover a rotten glance through the rear-view mirror as he twisted the wheel around and the Volvo surged forward. “If you're talking about that hidden Swiss bank account, Mister _Tristan Sollberger,_ you better forget it. Got that one scraped clean months ago.” The former FBI agent kept his eyes on the road even as Tony began to swear at him from the back seat. “Keep your Italian profanities to yourself and buckle up.”  
  
Wayne switched the wipers on to get some dirty brown fluid off the windshield and checked his side mirror. The remaining Dodge was still hot on their heels. They were approaching a more populated area with traffic ahead, and Bruce floored the pedal to catch a yellow light just in time. In satisfaction he watched their pursuers come to a slithering halt square across the junction.  
  
“We need to get this car out of traffic ASAP.”

Bruce's bare feet, while freezing, began to get slippery from cold sweat. He wiped them in turns on the floor mat. Alfred inspected their surroundings and pointed towards an upcoming exit. “Get us off I-476 and head for PA 320, Master Wayne. I have an idea how to get off their radar.” He examined the two younger, half-naked men to his left. “But first of all, both of you need something more decent to appear in public.”

Tony inspected his own t-shirt and sweatpants ensemble with a lopsided smirk.  
“Point taken. And then what?”  
Bruce twisted around in his seat to be able to really look at his lover for the first time.  
  
“Philadelphia airport.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

With Bruce's borrowed parka atop his pajamas and a pair of stashed old crocs from the trunk, Alfred made his way into the sparsely populated Target store. From their parking space far off the surveillance cameras, Bruce and Tony kept on glancing around with suspicion. The mobster still sat hunched on the backseat but his fingers were resting upon the bare skin of Bruce's freckled shoulders in front.

“Turn on the heater, amore, you're freezing up in your skivvies.”  
The Gothamite shifted in the clammy leather seat, eyes never leaving the store's entrance.  
“Not draining the battery if I can help it.”

With a disparaging snort, Tony began to gently rub some warmth into the cold flesh under his fingertips.  
“Unwavering as always, agente.”  
Bruce did not move again, but the corners of his mouth twisted upwards when a warm set of lips pressed a kiss upon his right shoulder.

As soon as Alfred hurried across the parking lot, two huge bags left and right, Bruce ignited the Volvo. Pennyworth hurled the bags onto the backseat next to Tony and buckled up again. “What little cash there is left should be enough to get us a place to stay overnight.” He held out a small wallet from the pocket of Bruce's jacket before he handed the parka back. With a grim nod, the Gothamite slipped his coat back on.

“We're going to get you out of Pennsylvania first, somewhere safe. Then Tony and I...”  
Benign, weathered fingers pulled at his jacket to make sure it covered most of his cold, bare chest.  
“Oh no, Master Wayne, I think you misunderstood. I'm coming along. To Italy.”  
  
He glimpsed from a stupefied Bruce back at an instantly delighted looking Tony. “I believe it's time for me to reap the benefits of my labor, so to speak.” Alfred's clear blue eyes turned soft as he reached for the wallet in his lap again and pulled out a small, wrinkled photograph. “This is it. My very own Casa di Sole. Bought with most of my RAF's pension scheme over the past ten years. It's about time I get to see it in person again.”

Tony reached out to take the picture in his hand and gazed at the ancient looking, huge premises with a nostalgic smile. “Va bene. You and I will talk about this later, after Signore here has picked up his jaw from the floor and gets us somewhere safe and cozy. Avanti, Bruce.”

~~~

Half an hour and some frazzled nerves later, when it seemed as if they were followed again, but in fact were not, Bruce pulled up on the gravel backyard of a Motel 6. Again, Alfred went in to get two rooms for a night, while the two young men busied themselves slipping into some real pants and sweaters from the Target bags. Antonio grunted as he tried to wiggle his still sore shoulder into a hoodie jacket.

“I need a hot shower, some big, greasy pizza, and a long, hard fuck in between the sheets.”  
Bruce stumbled against the outside of the driver's door as he hopped into the cheap jeans.  
“You're unbelievable.”  
  
Tony zipped the hooded jacket shut and grinned at the tight, too short fit of Bruce's pants.  
“Unbelievably horny is what you mean. And I think you are wearing something from my stack.”  
At the Gothamite's pointed look, the shorter man just shrugged and grabbed one of the four bags.  
  
“What? All this being chased, being shot at and being on the run just makes me needy.”  
Bruce snatched the bag from his grip and took the remaining ones before he locked the battered Volvo and marched onward.  
“Keep your libido on a leash for time being, will you.”  
  
His clipped way of speaking earned him a clandestine eye roll from the mobster behind his back. They met up with Pennyworth in the linoleum-floored reception area and got a standard room on the first floor. “I'm in room A005, one floor below. I paid for one night, no breakfast. Check out is at 9 am.” Bruce took the key and checked his watch. 00:14 am. “We'll leave at 6. I'll see to the car being fueled up. Night, Alfred.”  
  
Behind his fast disappearing back, Tony shrugged with a rather apologetic grin and squeezed the shoulders of the elder man in honest gratitude. After he had hurried to trot after his moody partner, they entered to a single room with a tacky, flowery bedspread, an old, non-flatscreen TV, and rickety furniture. Antonio Carbonelli wrinkled his nose and made a disapproving sound in the back of his throat.

“What is it with you Americans and ugly motel furnishings? How utterly revolting, dio mio.”  
As he stood and inspected their nightly quarters, the Gothamite went to close all curtains.  
“Sorry it doesn't meet your standards. Next time I'll try to get us chased down near a Hilton.”  
  
Antonio cocked his head and simultaneously an eyebrow.  
“Your attitude clearly needs some work there, tato, anybody told you lately?”  
Without casting him another look, Bruce's stripped off his too tight clothes with vigor.  
  
“I'm taking a shower.”  
His voice was gruff as he disappeared without bothering to wait.  
“Wanna share? This joint here looks like it's running out of hot water sooner than later.”

The bathroom door slammed shut and got locked from the inside split seconds later.  
Tony dropped onto the mattress of their queen-size bed and pursed his lips.  
“Guess that means no.”

When he heard the flush of the toilet and water running, he stopped dangling his legs over the rim and reached out for the telephone from the nightstand. His order for pizza and his hunger brought him downstairs to knock on Alfred's door afterward. “Alfredo mio, be so kind - I need some change. In return, there's a slice of pizza with your name on it.”

Once he got $20 and a polite 'no thanks' from the elder man, Tony strolled down to loiter around the empty, white-tiled lobby, waiting for his delivery. The same bored student at the front desk cast him a brief glance. Trying for inconspicuous, Carbonelli grabbed a piece of chewing gum from a jar on the counter. “Hey, can I just hop on the internet real quick?” He willed his voice to sound as American and accent-free as possible.

A nod from the receptionist which Tony graced with a smile in between chewing. Three computers, all free and with dark screens, stood in the far corner. He slipped onto the seat to the far end, keeping an eye out for the door, and booted up Windows XP. As soon as he had clicked the standard browsing symbol, MSN opened on the home screen. His eyes widened at the headline staring back at him.  
  
_'Mafia Connections: Huge scandal at FBI Headquarters: 15 high-ranked Agents indicted for Treason.'_

Tony was quick to skim over the article, looking for his name or that of the Vendicatori mentioned somewhere. Upon not finding either, he blew out a tiny sigh of relief. He scrolled back up and stared at the grainy shot of ATF members in uniforms carrying out boxes down the stairs of the FBI in New York.

_'Article by Clark Kent, Daily Planet. Read more.'_

The hand on the mouse stilled for a split second. Then Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli opened a second tab and pulled up a big search engine. And a second one, for picture search only, before he began to type. Clark Joseph Kent, age 34, born in Kansas, starting his career as a reporter at the Daily Planet at the tender age of 25. With furrowed brows, Tony scrolled through a multitude of articles before he switched tabs.

A significant gallery of pictures had loaded and gave him an all too good impression on said Clark Kent's impressive physical features and intellectual qualities. Immersed in his search, Tony almost missed the pizza delivery boy standing in the lobby, calling out his order. He pushed the $ 20 bill into the teenager's waiting hands and sunk back down in front of the computer, about to clear the search history.

A small picture on page four then captured his attention. Registered Facebook users only. Licking his lips, Tony logged in, and clicked 'enlarge'. He stared at the screen for about two minutes, before he swallowed and shut down the computer for good. As he made his way back up on the first floor, taking the stairs one by one, he could not help but to wonder.

Why was it that the picture of Clark Kent with his arm around a young Bruce Wayne's shoulder managed to rattle him that much? Was it their close proximity? The unknown story behind that simple gesture? Or the look of rare happiness on Bruce's normally so serious face?

“Porca troia!”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casa di Sole - House of the Sun / Sunny Mansion  
> Avanti - Go / Move it  
> Tato - 'Honey/Sweetie' (colloq.)  
> Porca troia! - Damn!/Blast it!


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's getting hot in here (so take off all your clothes)..

When he got back, Bruce stood next to the table and sorted through their clothes, wearing a huge white towel around his waist. His hair was still damp and hung into his face as he snatched off the labels with quick tugs. He cast a glance over to the pizza box in Tony's hand. “Scammed the last bucks off Alfred, I see.” With force, Tony hurled the tepid pizza box upon the bed. Bruce frowned but said nothing.  
  
“Tell me – are you really sure about this here, Bruce? About us?”  
Jaded, the Gothamite moved to throw the ripped off labels into a dustbin and rubbed his face.  
“I'm not in the mood for another lengthy debate about your out of whack libido right now.”  
  
Striking a challenging pose, Tony pushed out his chin and his chest at the same time. “I just wanna be sure, because last time I checked, I'm not 6'4 with steel blue eyes and a stomach you could grate Parmesan on. Kinda makes me wonder and all.” That got him a suspicious glance from behind long, pale fingers. “What has happened in the past fifteen minutes?”

“Your precious Clark has flown in to save the day. It's all over the internet. FBI scandal.” When he had Bruce's complete attention, Tony spread his arms in a seemingly generous arc. “I have to admit, you two made a pretty couple. Or should I say 'make'?” Hazel eyes blazed at him, underneath two furrowed brows. “Don't.” It was a quiet, dangerous hiss. Tony, however, had never been known to be able to listen.

“It's not too late to hand me over to the cops, ditch the lousy criminal and ride off into the sunset with your sexy journalist hunk. Really, I'd perfectly understand you, Wayne.” Tony made himself turn away from Bruce's tantalizing appearance and slipped off his shoes. The second Bruce lunged for him, Antonio Carbonelli all but yelped out in surprise. Two strong arms encircled his and pinned them close to his body.

“Stop this. Now.”

Tony kept his mouth shut but began to twist and wiggle until they were face to face. Up close, Bruce's skin was rosy, emitting a pleasant warmth and soapy smell. He had not bothered to shave for days, and Tony focused on the touch of ginger in his beard. Without warning, Bruce lifted him off his feet, hands planted underneath Tony's buttocks. He was about to open his mouth, but the Gothamite glared him down.  
  
“Not a single word from you.” As soon as they were in the bathroom, Bruce dropped him and began to yank off his clothes. “Bru---” A pair of warm lips cut him off. Once Tony was naked, Wayne threw the towel around his own waist aside and pushed his lover into the small shower cabin. “Not. A single. Word.” Bruce's clipped rasps went down in the crescendo of water as he turned up the shower.

Hot water cascaded down their backs as he reached out to squeeze soap from the dispenser into his palm before he went to lather wet skin from head to toe, mindful of Tony's injury. When he reached his semi-erection, Bruce started to run a hand along the hardening shaft. Entranced, Tony blinked large brown eyes open. “Sympa—sympathy fuck?” Droplets of water rolled off his long lashes.

“No.”  
Leaning in, Bruce got a taste of spearmint as Tony moaned into his kiss.  
“I'm going to fuck some sense into you.”  
  
Even as he spoke, Bruce applied a generous amount of clear soap onto his own arousal. Before Tony knew what was going on, he got lifted off his feet again and pressed up against the wet tiles of the shower stall. With firm but gentle intent, Bruce positioned himself in between his spread legs. Almost instantly, Tony interlinked his feet in the small of his back. “Do it, c'mon. I need...”  
  
The Gothamite's back arched as he drove into him. It elicited a guttural groan from his lover. “Non posso vivere senza te." The glass front was fogged up by the time slick skin on skin was working in a steady rhythm. Tony had gone over to lifting his hips to meet each of Bruce's thrusts. Wayne steadied both of their weight against the wall with one arm and tried to slow down his increasingly frantic pace.  
  
“Us. Just us.”  
  
He leaned back enough to watch the look of rapture on Tony's face as he all but pulled out, only to glide back into him with tantalizing deliberateness. With hooded eyes and parted lips, the half-Italian then raised his head to capture his lover's lips. “Don't hold back.. come for me, amore.” His heady mumblings caused Bruce to reinforce the one-handed grip on his firm buttocks and give into his carnal instincts.

Five more strokes did him in. What little part of Bruce's brain that was still functioning managed to not let Tony fall down as his orgasm tore through his body. He bit down into the junction of his lover's neck to muffle his grunts and felt the latter's firm erection between their bodies as he came down from his quivering high. When he raised his head, Tony's hands cupped his face. Something apart from lust lay in his dark brown eyes.

“Ti amo tanto.”

Wanting their intimate connection to last as long as possible, Bruce reached down to stroke the hardened shaft, watching with eager eyes how Tony tilted his head back against the wet tiles and arched into his palm. His fingers clawed at Bruce's hair while his other hand braced itself against his shoulder as the Gothamite quickened his pace and focused on Tony's bared throat.  
  
“I want to hear you when I make you come.”

Without warning, Antonio bucked underneath him and gave an unabashed cry that tore through the narrow confines of the bathroom. He was alternating between panting out Bruce's name and some mumbled obscenities that made Wayne smirk in triumphant satisfaction. “Your body may be clean, but your mouth is filthy as always, Carbonelli.” Still gasping for air, Tony cracked an eye open to cast him a breathless, shrewd grin.  
  
“Wouldn't want to have it any other way, agente.”  
Even as he slipped out of his secure haven and turned off the water, Bruce kept a hold of his lover.  
“For once, I can't disagree with you.”  
  
The kiss he pressed on Tony's hot and damp forehead was a gentle one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non posso vivere senza te - I can't live without you  
> Ti amo tanto - I love you so much


	22. Chapter 22

Toweled dry and wrapped into shirts and boxer shorts, Bruce spent extra time taking off the soaked and useless bandaging around Tony's shoulder. The latter was quick to try and brush him and the Volvo's first aid kit away. “It doesn't even hurt anymore, see? I'm good as new.” At the wince he gave when he attempted to make a wide, rotating motion, Bruce stopped his arm with a disparaging tilt of the head.

“Hold still.”  
  
Grumbling, Tony busied himself tearing at the limp, pre-cut pizza slices one-handed, while he allowed Bruce to patch his left up anew. Their Quattro Formaggi was dead cold by now. While Bruce's eyes stayed glued to the screen, watching the news on CNN, Tony started to feed him slice after slice with diligence and affection. At some point, Wayne sat up straighter and pointed the remote control at the TV.

“There it is.”  
The channel's news ticker was repeating the words 'FBI scandal' and 'suspected treason'.  
“Not much longer and they'll have all the details and facts collected. They're fast.”  
  
Tony sounded fairly surprised. The look on Bruce's countenance spoke of rebuke.  
“What did you expect? We wanted to be gone when 'the whole system falls apart', remember?”  
The mobster put up a humorless smile and crushed the empty pizza box between his hands.  
  
“We will. But not without new passports, amante – or did Alfredo buy them at Target as well?”  
Realization and instant vexation hushed over the other man's angular features in equal shares.  
“Of... course not!”  
  
Nothing followed Bruce's exclamation. Tony was generous enough to not call him out on the first flaw of his meticulous planning. Instead, he stood up to go and brush his teeth at the sink. “I'll take care of it, then we'll catch a flight to Italy. Maybe via Rome, but that's perfectly fine.” Bruce's skepticism was back with a vengeance. “How's that going to work?”

“I just need to get my hands on a phone, gonna cash in an old favor. Means we have to go to South Philly first, though. Meet an old friend of mine, he'll have them ready in a day or two.” The rest of Tony's words drowned in a puddle of white foam and incoherent mumblings. “Do I even want to know? All those dirty little con man stories surrounding you?” Dejection resounded in Bruce's voice as he joined him in the bathroom.

Tony rinsed his mouth and quirked an eyebrow into the mirror as he fetched a towel. “You're bound to, sooner or later. I'll throw in confession time for you in return, of course. Only fair, no? Plus, I for one am also not keen on emigrating with a walking riddle.” At that, Bruce Thomas Wayne stayed silent and leaned over to spit into the sink.

Back in bed, Antonio drew him close, half-expecting resistance. He was surprised to find Bruce leaning into his touch on his own accord. “How many things you don't know about me. How many things you... cannot know. It's not gonna go away just because we leave the country.” His voice was a warm gust of breath against Tony's neck. The latter snorted in affection.

“You’ll give me another life that I don't know. You'll be my companion as long as I can be sure you want to. And we'll live as we know how – by trust and... honesty, yes. I'll be honest with you, but I'll still stay who I am. Like you. It's contradicting, but it's gonna be what it will be.” The Gothamite raised his head just enough to be able to peek into Tony's shadowed features.  
  
“You make it sound so easy and simple.”  
Bruce then looked at him, with a never-seen, raw display of open doubt.  
“I don't know if this is the right thing. What if we don't make it?”  
  
Tony traced the shape of his outer ear with his index finger.  
“Everything in its time, you know. In Italy, we'd say Ogni cosa a suo tempo.”  
He gently forced the remote out of Bruce's hands and turned off the television.

~~~

“Tony? _Tony._ Antonio, wake up!”  
  
Bruce's voice was low and hushed. A click, then the lamp on the nightstand came to life. With a groggy moan, the half-Italian turned and buried his face into the pillow. “Ugh, no. 'S too early.” Prodding hands then touched his good shoulder, more insistent that time. “Get up, we have to go.” Bleary-eyed, Tony pushed himself up and squinted at the alarm clock. “It's not even 5, are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
Tony made a second attempt to squint into the illuminated room and rubbed his eyes. “What about Alfredo? Did you wake him just as tender and loving as me?” It took another few heartbeats for him to realize Bruce was already fully dressed. “He's on the airport express train since half an hour ago.” Slinging back the blankets, Tony put his feet on the cold linoleum floor. “What? He's _what?_ What did you do?!”  
  
His tone took on an incredulous note. Bruce rummaged through a plastic bag on the table. “Took him to the train station, sold the car, and got us some safety measures.” A nondescript smartphone landed next to Tony's thigh on the blanket. “You did all of that while I was sleeping? Why haven't we talked about this first?” He watched the FBI agent pull out a Smith & Wesson semi-automatic from the bag.  
  
“We are talking about it now.”   
With a latching sound, Wayne engaged the safety pin and slid the gun into a pocket holster.   
“Fuck, that's not how it goes, Bruce, what if something happens to him?”

“Alfred's more capable than you think. It'd be far more dangerous for him to stay close to us.”  
  
“Keep telling yourself that. Dio!”

Seeing Tony had already slipped on his pants and shirt, Bruce watched him with impatience. “I am not discussing this with you. Move it.” Standing in the doorway of the small bathroom, Antonio shook his head, toothbrush in his mouth. “That's how you always do it, agente, eh? Make the game, make the rules, and fuck the rest.” Voice muffled Tony turned away to scrub his teeth and face clean before he re-emerged, miffed.  
  
“We're a team and you can't just go and pull off stunts like that.”

“Alfred is none of _your_ concerns.”   
  
At the harsh, clipped voice, Tony snapped his mouth shut and zipped his jacket up with force. “Bene. Be a dickhead, for what it's worth.” He snatched the prepaid SIM card package from Bruce's waiting hand and averted his eyes. “You know damn well you're gonna have to get rid of the gun when we get to the airport.” Wayne's glare held just about as much petulance as Carbonelli's.  
  
“Exactly. _When_ we get there. _If_ we get there. All detours considered I prefer to go armed.” Sparse belongings packed into one plastic bag, they left the room side by side, but in silence. A steady drizzle engulfed them once they exited the motel. Wordless, Tony flipped up the collar of his jacket and followed his lover over to a black, rented Toyota Corolla standing in the corner.  



	23. Chapter 23

“There's no direct flight to Florence, figured.”  
  
It was the first words Tony spoke after being on the road for 45 minutes. At 05:54 am, the I-95 N was just beginning to crowd with morning rush hour traffic. From where he sat, feet propped up on the dashboard, Carbonelli busied himself browsing through the flight tracking app.

“Then go with Rome, like you said.” Bruce's voice was flat as he sat up straighter behind the wheel and grasped for his near empty coffee to go cup. Fatigue was starting to seep through his bones; something he just could not afford. Unmindful of his condition, Tony continued to type into the phone and smacked his lips. “Fucking app takes ages to load on 3G. How much data volume did you buy on this?”  
  
The Gothamite put the cup back into the holder and pinched the bridge of his nose. “1 GB. I figured a cyber crime genius like you should know how to make the best out of it.” The snide jibe earned him a dirty sideways glare. “That was uncalled for, amico. Just cause I called you out on your dick move doesn't mean you get to mope at me for the rest of the trip.“ A sharp turn to the right then caught Tony by surprise.

He all but yelped and braced himself against the passenger door when Bruce veered out of traffic and over onto a small service plaza. “What the fuck?!” Wordless, the Gothamite pulled into a parking lot on the outer rim of the rest area. “Go get us some water and something to eat. I need to use the restroom.” Not about to argue or comment on Wayne's brusque way of shoving money into his hands, they parted ways.

The half-Italian went into a nearby shop to buy the requested items, including a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and some gum. He kept an eye out for the newspapers on the shelf, but there was no Daily Planet in sight. Once he made his way back to their car it had stopped raining, but Bruce had not returned. Tony leaned against the hood, lit a cigarette, and pulled out his smartphone again.

His fingers had just formulated and sent a text message when he when he felt an odd feeling like he was being watched. Out of instinct, Antonio pocketed his phone and glanced around for Bruce. He was nowhere in sight. Instead, he spotted two guys from inside an old pick up truck, who were talking and looking over at him. Cold sweat began to break out in the small of Tony's back.

He took a couple more drags of the cigarette before he crushed it under his heel, fervently wishing to have gotten a spare set of car keys. When the two men got out of their car, slow and deliberate and eyes fixed on him, Antonio gauged his chances. Even if they were unarmed, they looked rough.  If they were armed, well...  
  
“Shitshitshit.”  
  
Mumbling to himself, Tony tried to casually move out of their line of view and slip behind the Corolla, to bring it between him and his observers. He watched them split up to encircle him from the front and the back of his car. One of them was built like a brick, with a full beard and a woolen cap. The other was slimmer, clean-shaven, and cradling some kind of bar or bat pressed up close to his side.

His whole body quivering from adrenaline, Tony tried to take deep breaths and to keep his eyes on them both.  
“Morning, guys. Can I help you?”  
Sturdy man bared his teeth in a faux smile.  
  
“Highway patrol. Papers please.”  
The sneer on their faces caused Tony to nod and grin along as well.  
“Oh. Really? You guys have casual redneck Fridays as well? Didn't know that.”  
  
Without warning, lanky dude wielded the bar in his hands. Tony was quick to duck. The dull thud of metal cracking the Toyota's driver side window echoed across the parking lot. “Now, now, amici, this is a brand new car.” Fatso shared a knowing look with his companion. “It's one of them f'sure. Take him out, his friend might show up soon as well.” The stout guy then lunged for him, but Tony was quick to escape his proximity.

With a half spin on his heels, he slipped away from where they wanted to corner him. Bouncing on his feet, Tony then put his forearms up martial arts style. His shoulder gave a silent protest, which he chose to ignore. “Unwise idea, fellas, just saying.” His breath came in short puffs that were visible in the cold, dewy air of the morning hours. Fat guy motioned for his friend to advance in again.

“The price on your heads makes up for it.”  
Tony steeled himself, keeping his eyes on the bar in his attacker's hands.  
A faint click of a trigger from behind. Antonio flinched, only to see his offenders do the same.  
  
“Freeze.”  
  
Bruce Wayne's tall silhouette emerged from the shadows, coming out of nowhere and looming up behind them. His voice was dark and raspy, and the hood of his jacket was drawn deep into his face. He obtained a solid stance with his feet planted firmly on the ground. His outstretched arms kept the gun trained on the to men in between two unwavering hands.

“Keep your hands where I can see them. Drop that bar. Move away from him. Slowly.”  
The bar clattered to the floor. Antonio abandoned his fighting stance and exhaled in relief.  
“Bout damn time. Nothing to better ruin your day than a bunch of redneck bounty hunters.”

Bruce did not react to his quips and focused on the two men who still stood with their hands in mid-air. “Who sent you?” The big one chuckled but said nothing. The Gothamite gritted his teeth and moved closer. A second later, the muzzle of his gun sat in the man's nape. “Face down on the floor, both of you. Hands above the heads.” The men complied and awkwardly cowered down onto the wet pavement.

Bruce towered over them, gun trained on their backs. His eyes then found those of an anxious looking Tony. “Get me the tow rope from the trunk.” In little to no time, Wayne had them bound, blindfolded and gagged against the pillar of a huge ad sign. He got into the driver's seat and brushed off his hood. Once he had inspected the splintered window pane, Bruce roamed narrowed eyes all over his lover.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was gruff. Tony looked up from his phone. “Only my ego. At least I got us some good news. Get the GPS ready.” He held the text message that stated an address in South Philadelphia up for Bruce to read. “Passports guy?” Antonio Carbonelli nodded and buckled up.

“He's working on them as we speak.”

 


	24. Chapter 24

They pulled up at a row of multicolored houses on 819 Johnston street 50 minutes later. The lithic stairs of the small building at the end of the block were crooked, some of them missing pieces. A stack of rained-on newspapers lay crumpled in the corner. Tony pressed his thumb onto the doorbell stating 'J. & C. Rhodes.' A shrill buzz, then footsteps could be heard. Some shuffling before someone peeked through the peephole.  
  
“Tones!”  
The black man who opened the door was quick to pull the half-Italian into a one-armed hug.  
“Sorry for barging in on you, platypus, but since we were around, I thought I'd say hi.”  
  
Rhodes was about Tony's height, rather lean, had a buzzcut and warm, friendly eyes. “You're really something, man, come on in, come on in. Them walls got eyes round here.” The house was even smaller from the inside. Its hallway was blocked as soon as Tony and Bruce had squeezed in, the latter having to twist around to shut the door. Pleasant warmth engulfed them, together with the smell of bacon, eggs, and fresh coffee.

“Hope you didn't come in one 'o ya fancy sports cars. There's been a rise in GTA ever since a month or two.” Tony zipped his jacket open and shook his head at the same time. “I still don't get why you wouldn't let me buy you a nice condo in Soho or Midtown.” Rhodes took his coat and at the same time held out a hand to fetch Bruce's jacket as well. “This is my place, and I won't get scared off by some hooligans and the like.”

When he took the coats into a room nearby, Tony cast his silent companion a crooked grin. “Rhodey's grown up here in this neighborhood. No money in the world could get him to move.” Tony's halfhearted try for explanations fell short when a pretty blonde woman appeared. “Antonio. Never thought I'd live to see the day you'd cross our doorstep.” Carbonelli grabbed her outstretched arm.   
  
“Carol, bella donna, I don't know how you do it, but you're getting prettier by the years.” The smirking woman allowed him to kiss the back of her hand before she returned his hug and playfully nudged his chin. “Shush it, old croonie. Come on in, but be quiet before Petey wakes up from all the ruckus.” She looked at Bruce with astute eyes before she made an inviting gesture towards what seemed to be the kitchen.  
  
“You guys hungry? There's some breakfast left. We're just gonna make some more coffee.” Tony blew her a kiss and turned to look at the tall, silent man behind him. “Beats crappy vending machine stuff by far.” From where Bruce assessed their surroundings, his eyes eventually came to rest on Rhodes. “We really don't want to cause any inconveniences.” Rhodes waved him off with a smile and extended a hand.  
  
“No prob at all. I'm James, but call me Jim. And you must be Steve. Tony's told me so much about you.”  
Wayne did not flinch as he took the proffered hand, but Tony did. All oblivious, Jim looked at him.  
“Didn't you say he was blonde?”  
  
The tight smile that stretched across the Gothamite's lips was a professional, yet lethal one.  
  
“My name is Bruce.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for canonical James Rhodes said to be grown up in South Philadelphia. Hooray for headcanon shipping Carol Danvers and James Rhodes, because I think they'd work, even though I don't know why, or how. But I do. (Oh, and does this chapter mean I finally get to make use of that awesome 'Rhodey is a good bro' tag?! Hmm..)


	25. Chapter 25

“Shit man, I'm sorry, I didn't know...”  
  
Rhodes looked every bit contrite as he whispered at his friend, stealing glances over to where Bruce stood and peeked through the plastic blinds of the kitchen window at their car outside. Tony waved him off, roamed his eyes over the stone-faced man that was his lover, and gave a casual shrug. “How would you know I ditched mob boy to abscond with fed guy? Life's been weird lately.”  
  
Rhodes stopped shoveling bacon upon Tony's plate. His eyes widened in utter incredulity. “He's a g-man?” His brown eyes began to dart from the bedroom his wife and 2-year-old son were in, over to Bruce, before they rested back on Tony. “Hell, Tones, what if he's gonna get the FBI down here? I got a family I need to protect, I don't know if this is...” Antonio Carbonelli put a hand on his, halting his motions.

“We'll be gone as soon as you got what I need. And believe me, Bruce isn't much on speaking terms with his former employer these days anyhow.” Jim Rhodes put the empty pan into the sink, let some water run into it, and grabbed another full plate. After he had rummaged around a messy drawer for a fork, he shot the Gothamite a gauging look. Once Bruce caught it, Rhodes pointed at a chair.

“Have a seat and dig in. Carol's scrambled eggs are nothing to write home about, but the bacon makes up for it tenfold.” Wayne thanked him with a sparse smile and took a seat next to Tony. His fingers twirled the fork around, even as his lover began to attack the steaming plate with gusto. “Did I just hear you dissing my scrambled eggs again?”  
  
Carol passed by the kitchen counter, dressed in a warm duffel coat and boots, and gave a light, loving slap to the back of her husband's head. Rhodey responded with a theatrical wince and rubbed at the spot. “Not in a lifetime, dear.” She sneaked her arm around his waist and stole a kiss from him. “I'm off for work. Lunch for you and Petey's in the fridge. He's still asleep. Make sure he takes a bath later on. Love you.”

She brushed her hand along Tony's shoulder and smiled at Bruce before she left. As soon as the door had clicked shut, Rhodes went for the small coffee maker and checked its progress. Bruce used the fork to slice through some large chunks of bacon and picked up some eggs. After swallowing a small mouthful, he eyed the man opposite of him again. “How fast can you work on the documents?”

James poured three cups of fresh coffee and slipped two mugs across the plastic surface. “Depending on how fast my sources work, I'd say tomorrow morning. I'll get to it right away.” Tony slurped at the hot beverage and leaned back in his chair. "Sounds good to me." He tried to make eye contact with his lover, but Bruce avoided his stare and focused on Rhodes instead.

“I want to park the car somewhere else for time being. Any public spaces around here?” James nodded and stirred some sugar into his cup. “Permit parking's for area residents, but that'll only cover two hours at most. The closest you could try is South Street Parking Garage, bout three miles from here. Take the tram so you don't have to walk back here all the way.”  
  
Wayne pushed his half-eaten plate away and finished his coffee with a swift move. “That's not necessary, I've been wanting some fresh air anyhow.” He rose and dug for his car keys. His eyes briefly grazed his silent and dejected looking lover. “Be back in an hour.” Tony worked his jaw and only shrugged with a stubborn set of shoulders. “I'll stay here. Bout time I get to see piccolo Petey again. Last time he yet had to learn to walk.”

~~~

After Bruce had found a spot at the public garage, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, pulled the hood over his head, and trudged on through the streets of South Philadelphia. Asphalt glistened under his feet from a previous shower and he increased his pace. When he re-entered the Rhodes' house fifty minutes later, James opened the door and pressed a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture.

Shedding his shoes and jacket, Bruce frowned at the other man. Rhodes then pointed at the ajar door to the main bedroom and Bruce peeked in. Tony sat on the floor, propped up against a box-spring bed, head tilted back and snoring softly. His left arm was protectively curled around an also sleeping, small boy in his lap, who wore a little red-blue Spiderman romper. Around them, toys were strewn all over the carpet.

Wordless, Bruce watched the tranquil scene for another few moments, before James pulled the door shut with a soft click. “How about you try to make use of the couch to get a nap in as well? I'm going to work on your special order now, seeing Petey is obviously in very good hands.” Once Bruce had put his head upon the cushions of the sofa, he was out cold within minutes.

He neither noticed someone placing a blanket around his sleeping form, nor the soft kiss Tony pressed upon his forehead.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Evening fell when Bruce woke and Carol returned with two large take-out pizza boxes.

As soon as the toddler had been fed and put to bed, the four of them sat around the cramped confines of the kitchen and ate. The conversation was strained and slow, seeing Bruce remained taciturn, Carol became frosty when learning of their true reason for visiting, and Tony and Rhodey tried to coat things over by making silly small talk and cracking jokes. When Tony wanted a smoke, Carol shooed him outside.

His hopes for Bruce to follow him got crushed when Wayne told him in a few clipped words he wanted to take a shower. Upon seeing his friend's crestfallen look, Rhodes grabbed a bottle of beer and went along. He pulled the door shut just as the lighter clicked and Tony exhaled the first few puffs. James looked at his old friend from college and nudged his shoulder.

“I'm gonna be responsible for the very first lover's quarrel, aren't I?”  
  
Antonio blew a few idle rings into the air and gave a crooked grin. “Heck no, we do the kiss-and-make-up spiel ever since getting together, it's kinda like foreplay. Plus, I got a big surprise concerning _his_ love life in return, just recently, so it's not like he should act all saints on me.” Rhodes quirked an eyebrow and sipped from his bottle. Tony started to make elaborate gestures with the glimmering object in his hands.

“Found out by accident his ex is a freaking Mister Universe. And from what I've seen, he even has the brains to back it up.” James watched him exhaling a fine line of smoke into the night. He leaned back against the banister. “But they've split.” Tony tapped the cigarette against the ashtray and watched the flakes ripple through the air. “Yeah.” Rhodes tilted his head. “So what's your problem then?”  
  
Antonio Carbonelli put both elbows up on the banister and stared ahead into the darkness.  
“How do you compete with a deity?”   
His friend stopped raising the bottle in mid-air and spread his arms.   
  
“Aw, c'mon Tones, what more confirmation than him being here with you do you need?” Tony chuckled without mirth. “I dunno Rhodey, it's like... I'm the little extra in this freaky road movie. You know, the one that gets dumped in the end at some dingy highway restaurant while the hero drives off into the sunset with his true love.” James huffed. “So be his ex-boyfriend's stuntman then.” Tony cast him a confused look.

Rhodes pointed his head at the dark living room upstairs. “Do what that other guy never had the courage to do when he had him.” With a lopsided smirk, Tony took a long, final drag on his cigarette and said nothing. Once he had stubbed the remains into the ashtray and Rhodey's beer was empty, they wished each other a good night.

After a quick shower and shaving session in the small confines of the bathroom, Tony brushed his teeth and slipped into the dark, quiet living room. Bruce had already retired for the night, but from the sounds of breathing, Tony sensed he was still awake. As he slipped onto the sofa sleeper next to the warm but rigid body, it occurred to him they had not spoken more than a handful words the whole day.

For a while, they lay side by side and listened to the sounds of the night. Somewhere in the distance, a police car flashed on its siren in short, staccato blips. Blue lights illuminated the ceiling for a second, creating strange patterns through the curtains. “So. Steve.” Bruce's voice was devoid of emotion. “He must've loved beating me up.” Tony heaved a shuddering breath and twisted onto his right side to watch his lover's profile.  
  
“Amore, please, it's not like that.”  
He did not reach out to him, however, and Bruce continued to lay as still as possible.  
“So much for being honest.”  
  
Carbonelli said nothing. Wayne pulled a hand free from underneath the blanket to run his fingers through his hair. “All this time you're giving me hell for being in a relationship that's over, and fail to mention your stunt with your team colleague. How perverted are you, Tony?” At that, Antonio pushed up into a sitting position. His silhouette stood out against the shadows.

“Cause Clark's a better man than I'll ever be. But Steve, he ain't... he's no better man than you.” Bruce made a dismissive sound and brushed off the hand that now tried for his chest. Tony breathed out audibly, but made no move to touch him again. “I don't expect you to understand this.” With another snort, Bruce turned away and pulled the covers high upon his shoulder.  
  
“Good, because you can't, and I don't.”

~~~

They left way before sunrise. The cold and brittle, dewy air was visible on their breaths. Bruce had parked the Toyota up front and kept the motor running to get the heater up. Standing under a streetlight, Rhodes stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nodded his chin at the items in Tony's hand. “Simply put your pictures in, and you're good to go.” Tony pocketed the ID's and reached for his friend.  
  
“Thanks, platypus, I owe you one. Big time.” James' eyes flickered from him to the man in the driver's seat and back. “Nah, man, just make sure to watch out for yourself, kay? Drop me a postcard sometime.” They hugged for the longest time, then Tony slapped Rhodey's back three times and drew back. “I will. You take care and give my regards to Carol and Petey.”

 


	27. Chapter 27

Bruce was still programming the GPS when Tony got into the passenger seat and buckled up. “Rhodey said we should take State Route 3007, then I 95 S. I-76 E might not be safe enough.” When the Gothamite did not reply and only typed in the mentioned changes undeterred, Tony spat out some colorful Italian curses. “Fuck this! Bruce!” His left hand shot up to clasp Wayne's fingers.  
  
“Stop giving me the goddamn silent treatment! I said I was sorry I didn't tell you, va bene?!”  
Glacial cold eyes found his. They narrowed at the way Tony held onto his hand.  
“So far you didn't, actually.”  
  
With a resolute tug, Bruce withdrew from the unwanted contact and put the car into motion. For the upcoming minutes, they rode in silence until Antonio cleared his throat. “It only lasted a couple of months. Way before I met you. No one from the team knew. Steve was-- _is_ a cruel man. His outward appearance is deceiving, inside he's a callous monster. So we-- _I_ ended it before it started to really... get out of hand.”  
  
Tony's voice was monotone as he stared ahead into the dawn of the new day. Next to him, Bruce squinted and unconsciously gripped the wheel tighter. “Anyone ever told you your taste in men clearly speaks of misguided judgment?” The humor was there, hidden behind a cynical smirk underneath brown-ginger stubble, and it caused the half-Italian to respond in the same manner.

“At least I went from violent to reticent. That counts as an improvement in my book.”

For the remaining 20 miles to go, Tony kept the fingers of his hand slid in between Bruce's right thigh and the driver's seat. Wayne's posture relaxed enough for him to try his luck for a kiss at a red light. Afterwards, Tony sighed and stroked Bruce's bearded cheek. “Spero tanto tu si sincero con mi.” He gave a little, huffed laugh to cover his mumblings and leaned back in his seat.  
  
_'You have reached your destination.'_

The GPS interrupted the moment, and both looked ahead as the tower of Philadelphia International Airport loomed up in the distance. Bruce licked his lips and checked the road signposts to take them straight to the departure gates. “No use getting the car back to the rental company. Let's just leave it somewhere to be towed away.” Tony dug for their coats and a bag with empty coffee and bagel wrappers from the backseat.

“Bene, but first of all we need to find a photo booth to prep the passports.” With an eye on the endless rows of occupied parking lots in front of Terminal A West, Bruce nodded. “Best if you get out and have a look around. I'll lose the car and meet you at the international gate.” He slowed the Corolla and turned on its hazard lights in a no parking zone. Tony was quick to take his jacket along.  
  
“Don't forget to dispose of the other item as well while you're at it.”  
He made a corny pistol gesture at Bruce and got subjected to some forceful eye rolling.  
“Off with you and get going. I need to make one more phone call.”  
  
At that, Antonio Carbonelli squinted at his lover for the longest time.  
Upon Bruce's unwavering expression, he eventually nodded; albeit cautious.  
“Okay, sure.”

~~~

“Hello?”

“What happened to your Daily Planet slogan?”

“... Good gracious! As if I knew it!”

“Your para-psychological perception is unparalleled.”

“I said _I'd_ get in touch with _you_. Do you know how dangerous this is? Right now?!”

“It's why I'm calling you. We're running out of time.”

“I'm on it, and the ATF is working on it as we speak. I'll have you in the clear in less...”

“Forget about me, focus on the info I gave you.”

“Oh for heaven's sake, stop giving me that martyr spiel. Daily Planet has its headline. I'll send you a copy if you're too busy to buy one.”

“I won't be around to read it, Clark. It's why I'm calling you.”

“To do what? B--... Hello? To do _what_?”

“Thanks for what you've done, and for what you're about to do. I wouldn't have made it alone.”

“Is this the official goodbye that I never got, like, one and a half years ago?”

“Stay safe and take care of yourself, okay?”  
  
Met with the busy signal, Clark Kent took the phone off his ear in slow motion.  
  
“You too, Bruce. You too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spero tanto tu si sincero con mi - I really hope you are honest with me


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to mysilv's wonderful input on this story - I tried to tie your idea into this chapter, hope it worked ;)

“Pierce is going behind bars. Soon.”

The newspaper's headline glared at them from where they stood, around the metal table. Nick Fury's voice was full of disgust. His good eye roamed across the four faces around him. “I want him dead before he decides to sing.” Natasha Romanov shifted her hip and straightened up. “I'll take care of that.” Her boss' face did not move. “Clint is still on crutches. Probably will be for the rest of the year. At minimum.”  
  
Her green-gray eyes narrowed with undiluted hatred. "I don't need backup for this one.” Fury cast a brief look over to the smallest man in the round. “Banner, make sure Black Widow gets access codes for Pierce's apartment and the garage.” Bruce Banner adjusted his silvery round glasses, cast his female teammate an assessing look, and nodded. “I'll see if I can hack into his bank accounts as well.” His lips parted with a slim smile.

“Financial reparations. We're not going to survive on assassinating people, now that...” Nick scowled but eventually nodded. Ever since their primal source of income had flown the coop, business had gotten tough. He glared at the headline of The Daily Planet again. “This reporter is still far too active. Maybe he needs some sort of warning to stop digging in the dirt.”

At that, Donald Blake cracked his neck and simultaneously his knuckles. “I can do that.” Steve Rogers' cold gaze met his. “From the info Banner got on him, he might know even more. I'll come with you, get some... answers." Fury folded the newspaper together and slammed it into the nearby trashcan. “Make yourself known, but leave him alive. No use stirring up another hornets' net.”  
  
Both blonde men cast each other a knowing, dangerous grin.

~~~

When Bruce slipped back out of the public phone booth, Tony awaited him in a plastic seat at the far end of a fairly unpopulated waiting area. He had made use of their 2-hour wait and the many shops around the airport to put the finishing touches to their well-forged papers. On top of that, Tony also presented Bruce his new, clean-shaven look.

Dark locks hidden underneath a navy blue trucker cap, Carbonelli now looked like a casual American traveler in jeans, checkered shirt, and sneakers. Losing the goatee also made him look a lot younger. “Here it is. Your new passport. Che magnifico foto, especially with all that scruff on your face.” Bruce Wayne gave a lopsided smirk underneath his full beard and reached out for the photo ID.

Before he was about to slip it into the pockets of his jacket, a frown manifested itself on his face. He was quick to snatch Tony's own papers and compared them. A snort escaped his lips. “Roberto Donadio and Cristiano Baldacci? Please tell me you're kidding. Why did you make me Italian? Do I look remotely Italian to you?” The shorter man grinned and flicked his fingers against the peak of his baseball hat.

“Ma perché non? I _do_ think you kinda look like a Cristiano.” With that, Tony snatched his own ID out of Bruce's hands and pocketed it inside his jacket. “Andiamo dear, they've announced our flight. Less than twelve hours and you're in bella Italia.” An ill-tempered Bruce Wayne followed his lover's breezy steps down the gangway. “I would've preferred you asking me about my future nationality first.”

Popping a piece of gum into his mouth, Tony flipped the little aluminum wrapper into a nearby trashcan. “Dio li Fa, poi li Accoppia, dear. I simply thought ahead. I'm a futurist.” Bruce's eyes narrowed in confusion. “Ahead of what?” All of a sudden, Tony seemed unable to look him in the eye and fiddled with his sleeve instead. “Ehh, y'know - fidanzarsi...sposarsi... whatever. Never mind now. You're gonna get used to being Italian. Basta.”

They went for the pre-boarding security screening, removing their shoes and jackets. With no irregularities, they soon were able to pick their few belongings back out of the plastic bins provided at the checkpoint and went on boarding their flight to Rome. Waiting in line, Tony bounced up and down on his heels. Bruce stilled his motions with a hand on the shoulder. "Stop fidgeting."  
  
The shorter man scrunched up his nose and glared at the staff up front.   
"What's taking them so long? Fa schifo!"   
Bruce leaned in with a scolding tug around his mouth just as they were inching their way forward once again.   
  
“Sirs? One moment, please.”  
Both froze when a security guard flanked them and halted their steps.  
“Where are you headed for?”  
  
Feigning charm and confidence, Antonio broke into one of his finest smiles and held up his ticket.  
“Italy, Sir.”  
The guard mustered his and Bruce's rather casual attire.

“What is the reason for your travel?”  
Sweat began to break out in the small of Tony's back.  
“A conference in Rome. My... business partner and I are attending a conference.”  
  
The guard made an almost too easy to miss gesture at some nearby colleagues from the TSA.  
“May I see your ID's, please?”  
Nodding along, Tony tried to still his fingers as he handed over the requested documents.  
  
“What kind of conference are you attending?”  
  
The guard was now looking directly at Bruce, who still stood, unmoving, and watched the exchange with a deep frown on his face. All guards eyed him and his uncooperative stance. Tony's teeth clenched around his piece of gum. When he tried to answer, the guard held up a stern hand and narrowed his eyes at Bruce. “Sir? I asked you a question. Your papers, please.”

The voice had become more insistent. Still, Bruce Thomas Wayne did not react.  
The three Transportation Security Administration guards put their hands on the holsters of their weapons.  
It was that moment when Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli thought everything was over.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma perché non? - (But) why not?  
> Dio li Fa, poi li Accoppia - God makes them, then he mates them  
> fidanzarsi...sposarsi... - getting engaged... getting married...  
> Fa schifo - It sucks


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the upcoming foreign jabber (I hope it means remotely what the translator told me it would..)

“Ciò che sembra essere il problema qui?”  
  
The words flowed from Bruce's lips without a hitch. Tony stared at him, open-mouthed. Bruce paid him no attention as he yanked the bag in his hands open and shoved it at the guards. “Che cosa è questo? I tuoi colleghi hanno già chiesto di controllare il mio passaporto. Controlli come questo ti fanno perdere tempo!” He began to work himself into a rant, all the while raising his voice. 

Passengers to their left and right began to notice the commotion and stole furtive glances at the uproar amidst the terminal. The two security guards started to look a trifle more uncomfortable than mere moments ago. “Sir, please, this is just a regular measure for your own safety.” Seeing Wayne was still gesturing wildly, one of the guards eyed a dumbstruck Tony.  
  
“Can you try to calm your business partner down? He doesn't seem to understand English.”

Numb, Antonio Carbonelli nodded at the elder man in uniform and turned to his comrade. “Cristiano... Cristiano – calma, per favore. Non c'è bisogno di un tumulto.” His frantic tugging on Bruce's sleeves was only part faked. The latter flared his nostrils. "Non ho mai provato dirottare un aereo! Qualcuno dovrà chiedere scusa a me perché mi hanno accusato di essere terrorista!" At the 'terrorista' wording, the guards perked up.

Tony hurried to slip into the unwillingly designated role of the translator at hand and told them about his partner's insulted nature. “Sir, tell your colleague in no way we were accusing him of such intent. This is a category X airport, however, so increased security screening is mandatory.” Obediently, Antonio repeated the guards' words in Italian, feeling caught in a strange place.

Bruce aka Cristiano took his time to go from furious, to quiet, to eventually huffed. “A noi la politica non interessa - vogliamo solo stare in pace. Abbiamo altro a cui pensare.” The officer took a final glimpse into their passports before he handed them back. “No worries, Mister, everything looks alright. Sorry for the inconvenience. Have a nice flight.”

Tony almost bent over backward with grateful bows, repetitively mumbling “Molto grazie”, and dragged his still glowering companion along. Once they were out of earshot and walking along the carpeted gateway towards the waiting plane, the half-Italian dared to speak up, albeit at a hushed volume. “Consider my mind blown. To think that all this time you had me fooled...”  
  
The hissed out comment elicited only a meager smirk from the stoic man by his side.  
  
“Not entirely true.”  
" _Very_ true. You said it yourself – said you don't speak the language! Fucking g-man!”  
“There go my trust issues again, mobster guy.”  
  
“Bah. I feel filthy. Bereaved of my purity. My innocence is stained, tainted forever, I...”  
“Shut up, Roberto.”  
The look Bruce Wayne cast him was an exasperated one, peppered with amused affection.  
  
“Che palle! Does that mean you understood every word I've ever said?” A vague smirk. “Certain ones better than others. Your slang is downright dreadful.” A couple of tsking sounds were his answer as Tony adjusted the base cap and shook his head. “How many languages do you speak while we're at it? Just curious.” Wayne briefly glimpsed upwards, as if going over a mental tally.  
  
“Nine or ten, depending if Latin counts. It is a dead language, after all.”  
  
“Well, fuck me sideways!”  
At Tony's thoroughly offended voice and facial expression, Bruce's left eyebrow twitched.  
“ _That_ I speak fluently, too.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciò che sembra essere il problema qui? - What seems to be the problem here?
> 
> Che cosa è questo? I tuoi colleghi hanno già chiesto di controllare il mio passaporto. Controlli come questo ti fanno perdere tempo! - What is this? Your colleagues have already asked to check my passport. Controls like this make you lose time!
> 
> Calma, per favore. Non c'è bisogno di un tumulto.- Calm down, please. There is no need for a riot.
> 
> Non ho mai provato dirottare un aereo! Qualcuno dovrà chiedere scusa a me perché mi hanno accusato di essere terrorista!- I never tried to hijack a plane! Someone will have to apologize to me because I was accused of being a terrorist!
> 
> A noi la politica non interessa - vogliamo solo stare in pace. Abbiamo altro a cui pensare. - We are not interested in politics - we just want to be at peace. We have other things to think about.
> 
> Che palle! - What a pain in the ass!


	30. Chapter 30

_'Allegedly corrupt FBI agent Alexander Pierce found dead in his bathtub. Suicide?'_

Clark Kent stared at the email he had received from one of the Daily Planet's regular wire service agencies. In an unconscious move, he took out his mobile and glimpsed at the dark screen, half-expecting a missed call from a certain guy from Gotham City, but there was none. “Looks like you really kicked a hornets' nest there, Clark. Things are coming thick and fast.”  
  
Lois Lane cast him a small, peculiar smirk as she passed him by, and lightly patted his shoulder. He gave a noncommittal smile and watched her take a seat at her desk, steaming mug of coffee in hand. “For once, I seem to have followed the right clues I guess.” Underlying envy hidden well behind her even face, Lois' clear blue eyes fixated him.

“It's a good thing you decided to make better use of your ATF connections. With me, Jim Gordon never even picks up when he sees the Daily Planet's number on his display.” The keys clacked under her fast typing fingers as she went for the first article of the day. Clark adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “I'm going to get a coffee from Bean's. Do you want anything else?”

Lois' eyes stayed glued to the screen as she slowly shook her head no. Nodding along, he took his jacket and soon stood in line at the local coffee shop around the corner. The customer in front of him was a young mother who took her time trying to calm the crying, red-faced baby in the stroller before she took even longer in placing her order.

Equipped with a large cappuccino, Clark left the store five minutes later, hastening to catch the green pedestrian light just in time. Careful not to spill coffee over the rim, he almost collided with a man dressed in a dark jacket and beige chinos. When Clark glimpsed up, he looked into a square-jawed, clean-shaven face with eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator shades. His opposite also wore a navy-blue baseball hat and a sneer.  
  
“Not minding your surroundings can be a dangerous thing.”  
All apologetic, Clark smiled.  
“Sorry, my fault.”  
  
He sucked off a bit of milk foam from his thumb and made a move to walk past.  
A hand on his shoulder stopped his motions.  
“No problem, Mister Kent. We have in fact been looking for you. It's a small world.”

Flabbergasted, Clark looked down, then back up into the stranger's face. The other man was a trifle shorter than him but equally athletic. Out of nowhere, a second man appeared on his left. He was nearly two inches taller than Clark, as blonde as his companion, but wore a ponytail instead of a hat. His bulk was more or less hidden inside a khaki-green bomber jacket, and he did not even attempt to crack a smile.

The reporter darted his eyes from one to the other. “I think this must be a misunderstanding of some kind. I don't even know you.” By now, they were effectively wedging him in their middle and walking him across the street. “My friend and I came all the way over to Metropolis to have a chat with you. How about now?” The three of them walked casually past the Daily Planet's main entrance and rounded a corner.  
  
With a humorless snort, Clark licked his lips and focused onto the cup of coffee in his hands. “Didn't know I've got my own fan club these days.” His steel-blue eyes then hardened. “I'm not opposed to calling the police, in case this is going to become an assault on my person.” Base cap spread his arms in a seemingly generous gesture and cast his comrade a look.

“Not necessary. We're gonna talk, then you won't see us again. Provided we find common ground.”  
Clark Kent narrowed his eyes as they came to stand in a less populated alley.  
“And what would that be?”

“A friend of ours does not approve of the coverage you've done recently.”  
  
“I'm a reporter. I'm just doing my job.”

“You seem pretty well informed for someone working at a local rag.”

Clark's brow furrowed in slight anger. “Not many people would call the Daily Planet a local rag. At least not those that have an insight on how we work.” His opposite only shrugged and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “It's not that hard finding out where you got your latest intel from. The internet never forgets.” Thinking back to his old Facebook account, Clark's face remained impassive.  
  
“Even if I knew one single thing, I wouldn't tell it to you.” The man smiled; handsome facade broken by the unmerciful gleam in his eyes. “You've told us more than enough already. I know that Wayne has been in touch with you. And I promise you this – even if you don't say a word, we'll find him. Hunt him down. Mark my words, Kent.” Clark swallowed against a lump in his throat and blinked behind his glasses.

“What makes you think he's still in-country?”  
  
Spurred on by the second the man looked pensive, Kent regained his courage and pushed out his chest. “You'll never find him if he doesn't want to be found.” To an almost too easy to miss gesture of his comrade, the taller blond man reached over to tilt the cup in Clark's hand. As the hot brown liquid dripped down onto the floor, splotching onto his shoes, Kent's eyes bore into those of his oppressors. Baseball hat flashed a mean grin.

“Too much caffeine makes people jittery, Kent. Here's my advice – stop digging.” Clark glanced from one man to the other. With a finalized gesture, he dumped the almost empty cup into a nearby trashcan. “If you ever dare to cross my path again, I'll have you arrested faster than you can say uncle.” They left him to turn and head back to work without another word.

~~~

“Not in-country anymore?”

“Looks that way, Nick.”

“I don't give a rat's ass about vague speculations, Rogers. What's the situation?”

“We've gone and checked out Rhodes' place. There have been templates. I think I know where they are hiding.”

“Does Rhodes know you've been there?”

“No, Sir, nobody was home.”

“Then go and finish this, Captain.”

“Yes, Sir.”

~~~

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. Due to problems with the ventilation system, we are about to take an unplanned layover at Frankfurt Airport. We apologize for the inconvenience; the delay should not take longer than three hours. Please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened and all carry-on luggage is stowed away. Thank you.”

With a groan, Tony cast Bruce an exasperated look. “As if a regular jet lag isn't enough.” The Gothamite responded with an impassive shrug. “A couple of hours don't matter.” Tony lightly smacked his lips and clicked the tray table shut in front of him. “Is German on your to-go language list?” The corner of Bruce's mouth lifted into a tiny, crooked grin. “Aber selbstverständlich.”  
  
Together, they watched the lights of the approaching, huge airport areal come into view.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aber selbstverständlich - But of course


	31. Chapter 31

Despite the unplanned layover that took them an extra six hours in the end, their arrival in Rome was to a sunny 55 degrees and pleasant weather.

Tired to the bone, they decided a commute via car was out of the question; neither man felt in the mood to conquer the 175 miles till Florence in about three hours. Another plane ride would have taken 50 minutes, but as Bruce pointed out, their diminished budget did not allow such luxury. His partner opted for some unlimited optimism, mostly due to his affection of homecoming.

“We'll go by train from Roma Termini. One and a half hours of Italian scenery. Splendido.”

It took them half an hour from airport to central station. Bruce left it to Tony to buy tickets, and they sat on the Frecciarossa to Florence no twenty minutes later. The train took the suburban routes up through the northern city until they reached a station called Settebagni. “Now we're really getting somewhere – the high-speed line's opening up. See?” Bruce eyed the digits on the electronic display above the sliding doors.

By now, the train was close to approaching 300 km/h. Tony rose from his seat next to him and made a move to squeeze past him, pulling out his phone. With an unobtrusive gentle move, he brushed his hand along Bruce's cheek. “Just wanna make a short vid. It's my first time on the Frecce. Gotta make use of the non-rush hour. Be right back.” Wayne nodded and slid into a comfortable position, hands folded atop his stomach.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to the soft chugging. When Tony had not returned after fifteen minutes, Bruce straightened up and looked up and down the aisle. They were still moving at 211 mp/h and the compartment was empty, except for him. A faint nagging feel made him get up and head for where Tony had disappeared, towards the rear end of the train.

Tony was nowhere in sight, and Wayne watched the endless rows of seats lying empty in mistrust. When he looked further ahead, Bruce then made out two men down the aisle of the next compartment. One was tall and blond, the other short and dark-haired. His pulse quickened the instant they turned around. As soon as Steve Rogers spotted him standing in the doorway, he yanked his hostage closer to his side.  
  
A sneer erupted on his handsome face as he held a gun to Tony's temple.   
“Agent Wayne, you finally made it. Come on in.”  
Bruce's eyes darted from his lover to Rogers and back as he stepped closer.

The doors slid shut behind him with a soft hydraulic hiss. Tony looked unharmed but pale and scared. The trained agent in Bruce went for calm and self-assured as he wet his lips and held up a hand. “Put the gun down, Rogers. There is another way to fix this.” His voice was low and deliberately modulated. Steve just made a couple of tutting noises.

“Your brainwashing FBI techniques don't work on me, Wayne. You might have corrupted him”, He ran the muzzle along Antonio's cheek, down to the spot between his jawbone and his throat. “But I'm willing to see past that. It's no secret Tony's always been a little slut.” Hot anger pulsed through Bruce's veins and he clenched his fists.

He tried to keep the fire from his eyes as he watched the blonde muffle Tony's eventual protests by clamping a hand square across his mouth. Rogers then cast ice-cold, blue eyes back on his nemesis. “At this point though, I don't even care anymore. I mean, I could go and put a bullet to both of your brains, and Nick will be thanking me when I get back home, but where's the fun in that?”

A shiver ran through Bruce Wayne's body and he unconsciously inched closer. Steve caught his movement and pulled back the gun's hammer. “Ah, ah, ah – you stay right where you are, agent. We don't want my finger to slip. One small bump on the road – you know how it goes.” Tony squeezed his eyes shut with the pain of utter helplessness. The image tore at Bruce's soul.   
  
“Let him go. If you're looking for trouble, pick someone your size.” The tall blonde seemed to mock-ponder said offer until his mouth twisted with sadistic glee. “How about I fuck him up first and make him watch as I finish you?” Rogers then pulled back and whacked Tony with the handle of his semi-automatic square across the face. Antonio stumbled forward in a daze, blood splattering all over the headrest of a nearby seat.

Steve then pressed his body down until he had him bent over the armrest. “Or... how about I just fuck him, and make you watch – before I kill you both?” As he spoke, he positioned himself behind the immobile man, grinding his crotch forcefully against Tony's clad rear. “You know, I remember how you like it, Tony; my dick buried balls-deep inside of you.” Hot white rage exploded behind Bruce's eyes.

Semi-conscious, Tony began to struggle to get up. Instantly, Steve swung the gun again to land another forceful blow to the back of his head. With a small, muffled groan Tony slumped forward in a boneless heap, not moving anymore. It was then that Bruce sprang into action, the split second Steve took his eyes off of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... did I mention already how much I in fact enjoy Dark!Steve Rogers? No? Ah, never mind me *whistles innocently*


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Physical violence in this one, partly graphic, though not thoroughly gory, I think...

The gun slithered away from the impact as Wayne hurled himself at Rogers, tackling him and taking him down to hit the small aisle in between seats with a dull thud. Steve recovered fast, his brute force coming through as he drove a knee up hard into Bruce's groin. For a moment, all the Gothamite saw were bright stars as he curled himself up and fought against a nauseous wave of cramps.

He neither noticed Rogers jumping back to his feet nor the flying toecap about to strike his temple. His head felt as if it would explode and he bit back a groan. “Nick said you'd be difficult,” Steve said, in a matter of fact voice, even as he landed another kick to the kneeling man's face. To the sound of his nasal bone cracking, Bruce howled out in pain. “Told him I was more than up for the challenge. Problem is, you’re not providing one.”  
  
Spitting a mouthful of crimson onto the carpet, Bruce glimpsed around for the missing gun. “Fuck you, Rogers.” Using momentum, he then hurled himself headfirst into Steve's abdominal area. While it was not enough to send the blonde to the floor a second time, Bruce managed to land a forceful uppercut to Steve's jaw. Despite his direct hit, Rogers drove both of his arms like a sledgehammer down on his neck.

Pain rippled through Bruce's body, yet he stood his ground. “I'm gonna fuck your boyfriend raw, the minute I'm done with you.” A feral scream tore from Bruce's lungs as he reached up to deliver a forceful strike to Steve's nasal septum, provoking a shock to the other man's cervical. Head snapping back, Rogers stumbled from surprise but managed to grab a seat to stay upright.

In a flash, he was coming back at Bruce and swung his fists. Panting hard, Wayne dodged, the pointed fingers of his left hand aiming for Steve's eyes. They found their goal in a move too fast for Steve to block so that the boxer had to turn sideways from the blinding pain. When his movements exposed a pressure point on his cheek, Bruce's fist drove into the blonde's jaw with a sickening crunch. 

He deflected another poorly aimed blow and mobilized all of his strength to drive a deceptive combination of a jab and left hook straight into Rogers’ side. Steve doubled over, but Bruce yanked him up again by a fistful of his hair. “BASTARD! Touch him again and I'll kill you! I'LL KILL YOU!” Blood and spit rained onto Steve's battered face. The latter then gave a nasty, bloodied smirk.  
  
“No chance in hell.”

The headbutt Rogers delivered managed to loosen Bruce's grip on him. Momentarily stunned, the Gothamite reeled back, receiving another round of sharp, relentless blows to his tender ribcage. He dropped to his knees as a sharp sting cut through his body and took his breath. “You're going down, Wayne, as painful as I can make it. And then I'll...”

A click. A shot being fired.  
  
Steve's body jerked, only to crumble to the floor in an instant. Through the curtain of blood obscuring his vision, Bruce stared up. Tony stood, half his face swollen shut, and pointed the gun with shaking hands at the unmoving body on the floor. “We gotta go. We gotta go now. We gotta leave this train. Bruce, we... gotta go!” His frenzied murmurs caused his lover to stretch out an arm into his direction. 

“Give me the gun, Tony, please. Relax, it's over, I promise. Please.”

Tasting metal in his mouth, Bruce swallowed and made a groggy, pain-filled attempt to get up. Carbonelli stared at him, over to the man laying in between them face down, and back at Bruce's outstretched hand. He then locked the gun and held it out, handle forward, to his lover. Bruce was quick to step over Steve's body, shove the handgun into the back of his waistband, and take Tony into his arms.

The pain from his aching bones had yet to settle in, and he made use of the final bout of adrenaline cruising through his veins to hold the shorter man tight. “I thought he'd kill you, I know what he's capable of, Bruce, I... _oh, God_.” Wayne interrupted his distorted ramblings with a bloodied kiss to his non-bruised temple. “It's okay, I'm okay. I wouldn't have let him. I wouldn't have let him do anything.”

Carbonelli nodded against his shoulder while mumbling The Lord's prayer in Italian. A cough spasmed through Bruce's body, and he let go of Tony to wrap an arm around his ribs. “We need to get cleaned up before the trains stops. Go see if the way to the lavatory is free.” Using headrests left and right to hold himself upright, Bruce Wayne staggered after his lover. The sliding doors closed soundlessly behind them.

~~~

In the small, chlorine-smelling confines of the restroom, Tony managed to wash away the most prominent traces on Bruce's face with clean water and lots of paper towels. By the time the train rolled into the station, the Gothamite's blood-soaked shirt was hidden under his jacket. Like Bruce, Tony had drawn his hood deep into his face to prevent anyone a direct view on his busted countenance.

He went for the first tourist shop to buy two pairs of cheap sunglasses. When he came back to where he had left his lover on a bench, Bruce was pale and shivering. “Amore, think we need to get you into a hospital, this looks bad.” Tony squatted down in front of his cowering form, carefully bracing himself on Wayne's knees, and watched the tiny droplets of blood on the concrete below.  
  
Bruce grunted and made an unsteady move to get up.  
“I've had worse. Just need a place to rest some, s'all. C'mon.”  
The last thing he remembered was Tony's face with his moving lips, but no sound coming out.

 


	33. Chapter 33

A steady, beeping noise tore through the haze of his woozy mind. He shifted, only to feel restraint from something tugging at his arm. Before he could start to get even more agitated, a cold hand brushed against the back of his hand. “Shh, relax, it's okay. It's okay.” With eyes still closed, Bruce took instant comfort in the sonorous, whispered words and the familiar touches.  
  
“Wh're we?”  
The touches went higher up his skin to caress his forearm.  
“Ospedale Santa Maria Nuova. I called 118 after you collapsed on me at the station.”  
  
It took two painful attempts for Bruce to open his eyes. Tony sat at his bedside, the nasty laceration above his eyebrow taped, and looked pallid and horrified. The dark purple bruise around his cheekbone stood out while the white of his eye was bloodshot and red. “Told them we were mugged and gave a vague description of a youthful gang of teenagers.” Bruce swallowed, only to wince at the pain the trivial action emitted.

“Don'hv nough cash f'hosp'l.”  
Antonio shook his head and leaned in. That close, Bruce could see the gash in his bottom lip.  
”Emergency treatment is free of charge in Italy, amore.”

Their gazes locked within each others eyes; eyes which were still reeling from the past hours and its horrid events.  
“When c'n w'leave?”  
Bruce had trouble breathing and forming articulate sentences. Tony gave a humorless snort.

“Non lo so. You got two cracked ribs, a broken nose and a more than moderate concussion. They want to set the fracture of your nasal bone as soon as possible.” It took a few heartbeats for him to process said information. Then Wayne hummed in dismay. “Surg'ry's g'nna cost m'ney.” His lover threw him a reprimanding smirk while he went over to caressing Bruce's temple.

“Stop worrying about money and just rest. I'll take care of things now, caro, and you get well.” A knock on the door revealed a nurse with dyed red hair, who began to talk in rapid Italian. In a resolute motion, she made Antonio wait outside while she changed her patient's bandages. “I'll be back in an hour, try to get some sleep.” The kiss Tony threw him behind the nurse's back elicited a weak smile.  
  
Bruce closed his burning eyes and drifted off again.  
  
~~

“Who's this?”

“You should know by now it's best not to go after me, Nick.”

“Did you kill him?”

“He didn't kill me, that's the most important thing.”

“All those years I thought I could trust you, Carbonelli.”

“Hah, yeah, as if you build your foundation on trust, Fury. Cry my a fucking river.”

“I could still strike you down, even if you're out of country. You'd better watch out.”

“Which is exactly why I'm calling you one last time – consider this my final warning.”

“You want to threaten me, boy?”

“First of all - I am not your boy, capisce? Second – yes, this is a threat; a serious one at that.”

“I ain't afraid of you, Carbonelli.”

“Oh, but you should be. All those skeletons in your closet, Fury, think about it. I got names, locations, bank accounts... everything it takes for me to bring the whole organization down. That leaked info Kent has spread wide open? That's just the tip of the iceberg, Nick, we both know it. All it takes for me is one click, one mail, one call, and you and your people are going down for good.”

Silence on the other end. Tony stared at the sunrise which drenched the whole room into blood-orange light; jaw set tight, his eyes unblinking and hard. His free hand was busy pulling out a cigarette from an open pack on the window sill in front, next to an empty espresso cup and a small, silvery USB stick.

“If you ever dare to come after me again, you and your whole house of cards are going down in flames. I am Italian by heart, Nick, vendetta is something I'm more than familiar with. I swear to you there are enough people out there, just waiting to cut anyone's throat who decides to mess with me and my family.” Without further ado, Tony took the mobile off his ear, cut the connection, and switched the device off.

For a couple of seconds he simply stood there, before he stepped out on the patio of his suite at the Continentale hotel in the ascending light of the sun. A click later, smoke wafted through the air. As he stood and gazed at the spectacular sunrise across Florence's historic Ponte Vecchio bridge, Antonio Eduardo Carbonelli mentally crossed off yet another thing on his to-do list.

Only two more to go. At least those were pleasant ones.  
A quick glimpse at his watch made Tony hasten to finish his smoke.  
After packing his few belongings, he grabbed his jacket and pulled the door shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non lo so - I don't know


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Off to the finish line!

After surgery, and two more days until most of the swelling had gone down, Bruce was allowed to leave the hospital.

Tony was there in a new and casual but expensive-looking suit to pick him up. His bruises had either vanished under the tan he had already acquired, or were hidden well underneath invisible concealer. Albeit having had the opportunity to shower before getting released, Bruce could not help but feel like a hobo next to him in those tattered, cheap clothes from Target.

When no one was around, Tony leaned in for their first, real kiss in days, and Bruce deeply inhaled the scent of his trademark fragrance. “At least you're consistent when it comes to indulging.” His finger traced a tender line along Tony's jawbone, where the ghost of a goatee started to grow. Dark brown eyes full of love shone back at him. “Ah, but I didn't just indulge myself. No, I come bearing gifts.”

He flipped a white plastic bag open and pushed a copy of the Daily Planet in Bruce's lap. “Here's Clark Kent's final article about framed FBI Agent Wayne and his glorious redemption.” Still light-headed from being on constant medication for days, Bruce numbly stared at the headline until Tony took the paper and slid it back into the bag. “You can read it later.”

He then bent down to heave two large bags reading 'Giorgio Armani' upon the bed. “First of all, we need you to get out of those rags.” At the selection of exquisite men's clothing, Bruce Wayne huffed out loud. “I'm getting a strong sense of deja vu here.” Tony downplayed the lingering issues with humor. “Yeah, best not make getting beat up to scrounge fancy clothes a habit.”

He did his best in helping to get Bruce undressed, was told off moments later, and sat down on the edge of the bed, legs dangling in mid-air. And frowned at Wayne's too tender movements. “You still hurt, amore. Let me help you.” Stubborn, Bruce shrugged into the button down shirt, wincing reduced to a minimum. “I'm a little sore, not geriatric. You're even worse than Alfred.”   
  
He paused after hoisting up the soft chinos and exhaled deep. Tony cocked his head. “Oh, speaking of which - Alfredo sends his regards.” Queasiness made Bruce put a hand on Tony's shoulder to steady himself. “You spoke to Alfred? When? Where is he?” Carbonelli then pulled him closer to gingerly loop the brown leather belt around his waist and fasten it. He wore a smug expression.

“Casa di Sole, remember? It's gonna be quite a way by car, but at least you'll get to see Italy.” With a longing glimpse at his lover's narrow hips, Tony stood up. "But now, off with you. This hospital smell makes me nauseous." With a casual gesture, the half-Italian then flipped a pair of shades from his collar and put them on. Skepticism flickered up in Bruce's eyes as he was being led through the corridors towards an elevator.

A second pair of sunglasses appeared in front of his nose as soon as they exited on ground floor, and he took it sans complaint. The sun was shining bright from what he could see outside the glass doors. “...car? Which car?” With an arm around his midriff, Tony steadied Bruce's tender steps down the hospital's stairs. “ _This_ car.” A shiny, brand-new Lamborghini Gallardo convertible in bright orange sat waiting at the curb.  
  
Bruce cast his lover a look that spoke volumes. “You've got to be kidding me.” Mock-scandalized, Tony pursed his lips and went to open the passenger door for him. “Roberto doesn't kid around, he's a very modest, down-to-earth guy. Buckle up, tesoro.” Feeling twice his age, Bruce folded his large and bedridden frame into the leather sport seat. He grumbled along as Tony closed the door for him with a smooth click.  
  
“... modest, my ass. This your idea of laying low or what?”  
With an aggressive purr, the engine ignited. Bruce's raised eyebrow met a million-dollar-smile.  
“... well, about that...”  
  
After revving the engine twice, Antonio grinned and made an elaborate throwaway gesture.  
"... Figurati!"  
They burnt rubber on their way onto the Autostrade.

~~~

The commute from Florence city to the rural part of town took forever, despite the 560 Horsepower they were equipped with. After several stopovers for some cups of strong espresso, they finally reached an area full of blooming vegetation, far outside the city center. Tony put the Gallardo Spyder into parking position in front of the gates. For a moment, their eyes ran along the vast and uninhabited premises, unsure.  
  
“Shall we have a look?”

Bruce nodded and unbuckled the seat belt. All chivalrous, Tony made a move to assist his lover out of the low slung car, only to stand on sandy ground, staring along the vastness of the hillside villa. Carbonelli then put his arms akimbo, and could not help but to groan out loud. “Ugh. That's gonna be fun. Molto gaudio.” At the sight of cracked roof beams and collapsed stonewalls, Tony cast Bruce a rotten look.  
  
“Alfredo didn't tell me this one was in dire need of renovations! Dio mio!”  
  
An uncommon cheeky smirk played on the Gothamite's lips. “And here I thought Antonio... no, wait – _Roberto Donadio_ always enjoyed a challenge.” Unsympathetic, the man in question wiggled an index finger at his bearded countenance. “Roberto Donadio is going to kick that sassy, sexy butt of yours, my dear.” Bruce smothered Tony's pout with a kiss. “What was that expression you're so fond of? Ah, yes: Bello e impossibile.“  
  
The shorter man then smirked.  
“I'll be happy to give you a demonstration of just how impossible I am, once we're all settled in.”  
They interlaced their fingers and started towards the front doors.

  
**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figurati! - Don't worry about it! / It's nothing!   
> \---  
> *wipes imaginary sweat off forehead*  
> Gosh, this was the hardest I've ever attempted.. All of you who've read, gave kudos and commented, thank you. I wouldn't have finished this if it wasn't for you guys! A special, heartfelt THANK YOU to both mysilv and Batsocks for their truly amazing support throughout the chapters... without the two of you, this probably would've ended 12 chapters earlier (and less complete) :D
> 
> Author's note to self: Stop digging your own grave by trying to write polyglot characters, darn it


End file.
